


Light of Winter

by you_were_always_reylo_scum



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (potentially), Albus Dumbledore Being an Idiot, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Angst, BAMF Minerva McGonagall, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fluff, Hufflepuff/Slytherin Inter-House Relationships, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mutual Pining, Pre-Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, Psychological Trauma, Redemption, Romance, Severus Snape - Freeform, Severus Snape Has a Heart, Severus Snape Redemption, Severus Snape-centric, Severus Snape/OC - Freeform, Severus Snape/Original Female Character - Freeform, Slow Burn, Slytherins Being Slytherins, Sort Of, Young Severus Snape, badass OC, he's still a bastard, it's all about the yearning folks, let's just be clear...snape is a dumpster fire but he has POTENTIAL, listen i gotta indulge in my love for snape somehow and this is the healthiest way i can think of, squints at that last one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:47:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28164996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/you_were_always_reylo_scum/pseuds/you_were_always_reylo_scum
Summary: Following a mysterious accident at the Ministry of Magic, empath Ariadne Silverthorn finds herself in the position of many a professor before her -- sheltered by the willing magnanimity of Albus Dumbledore. But dangerous secrets lurk in the shadowed halls of this castle, and not all of them are magical.Severus Snape / OC.
Relationships: Severus Snape/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 61





	1. Lilac and Lemon Drops

"Fizzing Whizzbees," the young witch said to the enormous stone gargoyle, the words sounding loud and self-conscious to her own ears in the vast, timeworn corridor.

She watched impassively as the gargoyle stepped aside to give her access. Had she been younger, she may have given a start, or a small gasp of surprise. As it was, however, she had encountered her fair share of eccentric doorway enchantments in her years at the Ministry of Magic, and now found anything short of a snarling dragon or screeching banshee emerging to dispel unwelcome visitors somewhat underwhelming.

Working at the Ministry for too long usually tended to impart a sick sense of humor to its employees. If there was anything good to come from her swift exit from the Ministry, the witch thought with a small grimace, it was that she had at least avoided that particular fate.

She stepped quietly forward into the spiral stairwell, forcing herself to ascend at a measured pace. The gargoyle may not have been frightening, but she was certainly uneasy about who she'd meet in the office above. She had arrived to the designated place of their meeting over an hour early, paced in the hallway for 45 minutes, and finally decided that she was within the realm of socially-acceptable earliness before she worked up the nerve to speak the password. Her heart began to jump unevenly in her chest, her palms sweating inside her occamy-skin gloves.

She took a moment at the top of the stairs to calm her erratic breathing, before proceeding to the large mahogany door. Her glove had barely brushed the wood before a friendly voice inside replied, "Do come in."

Most first-time visitors to the Headmaster's office may have been briefly distracted by the whirring gizmos and trinkets that filled every conceivable space in the room, or perhaps even the cluttered portraits of past headmasters scrutinizing them with varying degrees of interest from their frames. The young witch's eyes, however, fell immediately on the old wizard sitting unassumingly in his throne-like chair. His fingers were laced in a leasurely steeple, a faint smile visible beneath his cloud-white beard.

She beheld the man for a long moment, entirely captivated by something she saw. The Headmaster, too, regarded the girl with gentle curiosity, and perhaps the barest trace of something indecipherable.

"Headmaster Dumbledore," the witch greeted, nodding in respect. Distracted by the sight before her, her nerves had calmed somewhat, but her gloved hands remained clenched nervously at her sides.

"Miss Silverthorn, please sit down," the man said kindly, extending a hand to the chair opposite his desk. She thanked him, and politely declined a lemon drop.

"I am very glad you could find the time to meet with me today-- may I call you Ariadne?" he began, obviously trying to put her at ease.

"Absolutely, please."

"--Very glad, Ariadne. It's not every day that I get to be in the presence of someone with your particular gifts."

A thin smile traced Ariadne's face. "Well, sir, as I believe you know, I have recently found myself with an abundance of free time. I'm more than happy to share some of it to speak with a great wizard like yourself."

"Ah, yes. I have indeed heard of your recent departure from the Ministry. Not, I think, entirely unfortunate -- wouldn't you agree?" he asked knowingly.

She searched his wizened face, a beat passing before she answered, "No, sir. Not entirely unfortunate. I'm inclined to think the opposite, actually."

"Yes, yes," he said, a hand coming up to stroke his beard. He looked as though he was on the verge of asking a thoroughly provoking question, which is why Ariadne blanched when he said, "I must ask you what my color is."

She knew immediately what he meant, but still found herself saying, "Sorry?"

He continued, "I confess I've always imagined myself to be a crimson man, or perhaps even a tasteful sunflower yellow. But our perceptions of ourselves are so very often skewed, I wonder how off-the-mark I may be."

Ariadne couldn't suppress a small smile. "Your...magical aura is lilac, sir."

"Lilac!" he exclaimed, and Ariadne felt instantly she was experiencing an exceedingly rare thing in seeing a surprised Albus Dumbledore. "Lilac, truly?"

She nodded, grinning.

"Goodness," he said. "To think I've spent a lifetime avoiding jewel-toned robes. To be entirely honest with you, Ariadne, I feel the smallest bit betrayed by myself at the moment."

Ariadne laughed, a high, clear sound.

When he seemed to have recovered, Ariadne ventured, "Headmaster Dumbledore, can I ask why you've invited me here? When I got the owl, I couldn't imagine why you'd...I mean, I'm not...I'm a little confused."

Her regarded her from behind his half-moon spectacles. "My sources tell me that you have never attended any institutions of magical learning. Is this true?"

Ariadne winced. The Ministry had, as they would put it, "discovered" her when she was 10, a full year before the rest of Britain received their Hogwarts letters. Seeing the castle grounds for the first time earlier that day had made her chest swell with a whirlwind of longing, curiosity, and regret.

"Yes, it's true. I was tutored privately under Ministry supervision."

She declined to mention that she hadn't had much say in the matter. Dumbledore continued.

"Yet I see that you achieved all 'Outstandings' and 'Exceeds Expectations' in your N.E.W.T.s," he said, producing a modest file from thin air and thumbing through it.

"That's correct..."

The file vanished. "Have you ever considered teaching, Ariadne?"

She looked at Dumbledore, wide-eyed, and then gave an odd, sputtering laugh. "I - no, I haven't considered it. Ever."

He gave a bemused smile. "I invite you to do so. I'm offering you a teaching position at this school."

Ariadne opened her mouth, closed it. Laughed again. "Headmaster, you pointed out yourself that I never attended a normal wizarding school. I've never even stepped foot inside a classroom. I'm - I should say, I'm incredibly honored by the offer, but - "

"Magically speaking, you are more than qualified," he interrupted. "As for the teaching itself, I've concluded that it is a skill acquired with time and experience. Most of us sit in classrooms our entire lives, but very few become effective teachers."

"That may be, but..."

"My Muggle Studies professor, Professor Quirrell, has quite suddenly left on sabbatical, leaving me with a perplexing gap in staff for the upcoming school year," Dumbledore said, half to himself. "Conveniently, I gather that you have extensive experience with the Muggle world."

Ariadne had lived with her Muggle parents in Manchester for the first 10 years of her life, before the Ministry whisked her away. In a strange sort of irony, her supervisors had forbidden her from openly mingling in wizarding society, but had been entirely happy to let her cross freely in and out of the Muggle world at her convenience. In a sense, certain aspects of the Muggle world were much more familiar to her than the wizarding world (barring the workplace enchantments, anyway).

Ariadne felt panic rising like bile in her throat. "You want me around children?" she blurted. "You honestly believe that's a good idea?"

She couldn't bring herself to say the words she was thinking. _There's not a single thing I've done at the Ministry that I'm proud of._ If Dumbledore had really done his research, she guessed that she didn't need to tell him.

He leaned forward at his desk. "What I believe is that you are in posession of a very rare, very powerful gift. A gift which, sadly, has been abused by people around you for much of your life. Hogwarts is safe, Ariadne. I make it so. Here, you will not have to use that gift for ill. You will be free to use it for good, or to not use it at all, as you so choose."

Suddenly feeling small, Ariadne looked down at her gloved hands, where they lay clasped in her lap. "I'm not even sure how it could be used for good."

"Then let us teach you," he said simply.

Her head jerked up. She felt that same ghost of longing from when she'd first seen the castle. "Well, I..."

Muggle Studies involved almost no magic, so it would be much easier to concentrate on keeping things under control - on avoiding accidents. Besides, since fleeing the Ministry, she'd had almost no time to think about what would come next, or what someone like her would even find to do long term...

"If it were anyone other than Albus Dumbledore himself asking, I'd kindly suggest they take a trip to St. Mungo's." She sobered for a moment, voice low, "Headmaster, the moment I feel that it's too much, or that I'm influencing anyone - "

"The safety of my students is my first priority," he said seriously. "I will not allow harm to come to any of them."

Ariadne let out a slow breath. "Alright. I gratefully accept your offer."

The old wizard's eyes twinkled. "Excellent," he said. "Wonderful."

As if on cue, Ariadne became aware of a faint echo of clicking heels in the corridor outside.

"May I come in, Albus?" said a woman's voice.

"Professor McGonagall," said Dumbledore as he and Ariadne stood, "You've come just in time to meet our new Muggle Studies professor."

"Is that so?" said the witch appraisingly. Her gaze was sharp as she took in Ariadne, but not unkind. Her emerald broach shone beautifully next to the deep forest green of her velvet robes. She held herself like royalty, with the presence to match.

"Ariadne Silverthorn," Ariadne introduced herself, smiling shyly at the older witch.

The woman nodded curtly. "As we are to be colleagues, you may dispense with the honorifics and call me Minerva. Congratulations, and welcome."

Ariadne nodded gratefully - she appreciated people who didn't beat around the bush. Privately, she noted that Minerva would be a valuable resource if she needed an honest opinion. It wasn't hard to see how she could strike fear into the hearts of misbehaving students.

"Your things have been floo'd to your room," Minerva said, all business. "Should you have need of anything else, a house elf will be assigned to you shortly."

"My things?" Ariadne looked at Dumbledore. "Already?"

Dumbledore simply twinkled. "Minerva, would you be so kind as to show Ariadne to her quarters? She is new to the castle, and we know how that can be."

"Gladly, but Albus - I do believe you are forgetting something."

Ariadne looked between the two of them. Dumbledore threw his hands up.

"Of course," he said turning from Ariadne with an outstretched hand. From the bookshelf at the back of the room, something like a giant brown bag flew into his palm

Upon closer inspection, Ariadne noted that it was a hat. A hat, that looked like it had been chewed up by several generations of household pets, and possibly dragged behind a moving carriage once or twice.

"I assume you're familiar with the four houses of Hogwarts, Ariadne?"

"Yes, very." Ariadne felt a thrill run through her. Almost every adult wizard at the Ministry identified with their house, and she had always wondered where her allegiances might lie if she'd had a normal education.

"As most of our professors are Hogwarts alumni, they get the sorting business out of the way early. But if you are to be a part of the Hogwarts staff, then of course, we must give you honorary house status. May I?"

Ariadne gave her eager assent. She was almost equal to Dumbledore in height, so she quickly sat to give him easier access. Minerva watched from a few steps away, her mouth prim, but her gaze benevolent.

As the hat came to rest on her head, it gave a bark of surprise. Ariadne jumped, somehow not expecting the hat to sound so gruff.

"Dear me," it said, "Haven't sorted one this old in quite some time."

Despite herself, Ariadne gave a small noise of protest. She was only 23.

"Oh come now," Minerva beat her to it, in her testy Scottish brogue. "We can't all be dewey-eyed school girls." Ariadne shot her a grateful smirk.

The hat continued, grumbling to itself, "Haven't sorted one quite this strong in a while, either," it said. "Haven't seen a magical empath on this level in several hundred years, I'd say."

Minerva's eyebrow shot up as she glanced at Dumbledore. Ariadne turned her attention to her shoes, suddenly nervous. It wasn't a feeling she liked, being read this way. It felt rather too much like what she imagined herself to be, to the eyes of others.

"Well regardless of all that, the choice is pretty obvious. A through-and-through fit, no doubt about it. HUFFLEPUFF!"

A warm feeling spread through Ariadne, and she grinned brightly at the two professors as Dumbledore removed the hat.

"Well, there you have it," Ariadne said. Dumbledore nodded to himself contentedly, like a suspicion had been confirmed.

"Pomona will certainly be thankful to have another Hufflepuff on staff. And I dare say," Minerva added, pursing her lips, "you will have one of the easiest allotments of students to manage."

Ariadne sensed there was a volume of incidents behind that remark that outnumbered what any of them could unpack in an afternoon. She replied instead with an earnest, "Oh, lovely."

"Now, if you would follow me," Minerva said, and took her leave of the room. Ariadne hastened after her, but paused at the door, turning to Dumbledore once more. He stood watching her, his hands clasped behind his back.

"Headmaster, I -" She grasped for the words, feeling gratitude and apprehension and bewilderment all at once. She checked herself immediately, careful not to let her emotions spill over into dangerous territory. She settled with, "I won't let you down."

The serene smile never left his face. "I'm certain you won't, Ariadne. I'm expecting great things from you."

His words overwhelmed her, almost too kind in light of her particular history. "Thank you, sir."

As she lay down on her pillow that evening, Ariadne looked around at the quaint room that would serve as her sleeping quarters for the duration of her term at Hogwarts. The sunny bedroom was, appropriately for a Hufflepuff, situated in the tower overlooking the greenhouses. Minerva told her it was in the same wing of the castle as the Hufflepuff common room, for easy access in the event of any student emergencies.

Ariadne murmured a soft incantation to extinguish the flickering candle at her bedside. She would send an owl to her parents in the morning, to let them know of her sudden change in residence.

Alone at last, she allowed herself to dwell fully on the whirlwind of surprises that the day had presented. But most of all, she dwelled on the secrets known only to her - that within Minerva McGonagall's bright, resolute magical aura, there was an unbreakable will that would never waver, and a reserve of compassion that seemed almost boundless in its magnitude.

And that within Albus Dumbledore's lilac aura, there was an ancient wisdom that seemed intent on seeking out the good and the admirable, as if to prove that there were things in the world that could overcome the terrible shard of guilt that spread through its core in long, icy tendrils.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *slaps OC on the back* this baby can fit so much self-projection


	2. Introductions

Over the course of the next several weeks, Ariadne found a dual use for her time: by seeking out the best spots for solace on the castle grounds, she could familiarize herself with its hidden beauty, while also giving herself long stretches of time to absorb her curriculum for the upcoming year.

Though it was close between the grand library and the astronomy tower, she concluded that her favorite spot on the entire campus was by the lake, beneath the ancient willow tree that swayed gently by the east gate.

Minerva had given her advance warning about the Whomping Willow at the other end of the grounds; this willow seemed to be its more relaxed, sociable cousin. The tree greeted her at first with a type of lazy disregard as she brushed aside its whispy green curtain. By her fifth or sixth visit, she could detect a happy shiver in the tree's energy, a kind of modest welcome for her company. She wondered if it was her gift that enabled the detection of the tree's regard, or if the willow's magic was so old, so rich, that even normal wizards and witches could sense its languid undulations in mood.

To Ariadne's happy surprise, the Muggle Studies curriculum passed muster under her keen scrutinizations. She spent days at a time beneath the ancient willow, devouring the textbook that had been used by the previous instructor, Professor Quirrell. By the time she was finished, her notations almost overwhelmed the text of the actual book - but she was heartened by the lack of caustic criticism that one so often heard about Muggles in the wizarding world.

The curriculum was, unfortunately, quite dry. She would have to fix that, she mused, as a grindylow shot a few feet out of the lake and submerged again with a plunk.

The night of the Sorting Ceremony approached. Even from her small room by the greenhouses, she could feel the castle coming alive with the small flickering energy signatures of the students. The walls themselves seemed to stretch and yawn, awakening from their summer slumber. As she prepared herself for dinner, Ariadne realized the subtle buzz of excitement at the base of her skull wasn't even hers - the castle was eager to have its halls filled with the boisterous sounds of youth and learning.

She gazed into the mirror and tried to see herself as the students might. She was a tall, pale witch - used to sensing that she inspired a flicker of unease, even terror, in others when they first saw her. But then, those introductions had always been made under very different circumstances. Those people at the Ministry had every right to fear her.

Swallowing the bitter taste in her mouth, Ariadne twisted her braid into a careful bun at the crown of her head. She allowed herself to hope that these students wouldn't react the same way - here, they were safe. She was safe. Things would be different.

She brushed a white blonde curl behind her ear and straightened the high collar at her neck. Her wand - all 13 and 3/4 inches of fir wood and dragon heartstring core - she slid up her sleeve.

She stood to smooth her indigo robes, and froze, reeling from a sudden wave of dizziness. She screwed her eyes shut and took a few measured breaths. It passed somewhat, but she remained motionless. Anxiety clawed her stomach as she realized the number of students in the castle was pulling on her reserves more than she thought.

Ariadne recalled her first time at the Ministry - her first introduction to other wizards. The sheer magnitude of their combined magical energy signatures had hit her like a brick to the sternum, practically knocking her flat.

She hadn't reacted well.

The harried voices of her supervisors, urging her to calm down, floated back to her. The rest of that day was a blur, except for the feeling like something in her had cracked and splintered, as she willed the pulsating hurricane of colors and grudges and angers and jealousies and joys around her to be quiet -

She'd woken up in a private room two days later. They told her that her sensitivity was a sign of her power.

Angrily, Ariadne pulled her occamy skin gloves tight.

She glanced at the clock with a jolt. The Sorting Ceremony was starting in 10 minutes.

Letting out a dismayed yelp, Ariadne bolted from the room, barely stopping to lock the door behind her. Of all the days to cut it this close, with the first impressions of the students riding on this one encounter -

She hadn't even met most of the faculty yet. According to Hogwarts tradition, they had arrived the same day as most of the students, except for Dumbledore and McGonagall. Ariadne's indigo robes cascaded behind her as she cursed the intra-castle Apparition ban.

For a terrifying moment, she realized that she'd taken a wrong turn. Luckily, or unluckily, she could easily divine the location of the Great Hall. Every magical aura in the building had gathered in the same place. The radiating blaze was impossible to ignore. She had grown in her ability to handle large concentrations of magical energy like this, but it certainly didn't feel any less like staring into the sun.

She willed herself forward, toward the faculty entrance to the Great Hall. If she was going to do this job, she would have to find a way to cope.

The muffled roar of excited students grew louder as she approached the door. Fearful of wasting anymore time, she pushed it open at once, and her resolve almost deserted her. She blinked rapidly to adjust to the full magical force of the room, gripping the door frame momentarily to right herself. Her defenses snapped into gear; to stay on her feet, she had to concentrate fully to maintain what little barrier she was able to amidst the onslaught of ambient magical power.

She battled for several seconds. When the danger had passed, she took another look at the room - she had seen the Great Hall often over the last few weeks, but it was an entirely different matter to see it occupied. Students were chatting animatedly to each other, thrilled to be back with their friends after the summer interlude. The tables were chock-full of scrumptious-looking food, and only happy faces seemed to interrupt the great sea of black cloaks. The colors of each house hung lavishly from the enchanted ceiling, which glimmered with a touch more warmth than usual.

A gentle lilac haze in her periphery brought Ariadne back to herself. The Headmaster - including several other curious heads at the faculty table - had turned to regard her as she lingered in the doorway.

"Professor Silverthorn, so glad you could join us," Dumbledore said kindly, without a trace of malice. He gestured to the only open seat at the head table. Ariadne ducked her head, an embarassed smile flitting across her face, before she hastened to sit.

She'd barely had time to pull in her chair before a quite sardonic voice at her right said, "It's usually best for the faculty to arrive at school functions before they've already begun."

Ariadne met the eyes of the man who had spoken - that is to say, she met his eyes, after several other things about his aura had already leapt out at her. She stared at them, quite transfixed, before uttering a small, "Oh."

The man arched a derisive brow, staring back.

Several seconds passed before Ariadne realized she was giving him a peculiar look. Undaunted by his rancor, she smiled softly and replied, "I'll try to remember that for next time."

The man frowned. He pulled his eyes away from hers to reach for his goblet, which had filled itself with an amber-colored liquid.

"You must be the fresh face Albus mentioned would be joining the staff this year," a high voice squeaked. To her left, a very small wizard with a superb mustache sat atop a stack of several books. "Filius Flitwick, at your service." The small wizard extended a hand to shake.

She took his smaller hand in her gloved one. "Ariadne Silverthorn. So glad to meet you."

She meant it. His silver aura bore all the marks of one who had faced extreme prejudice throughout his life. She was filled with respect as she noted the way the silver force had adapted and hardened, making the man as tough as he no doubt was clever.

If Flitwick thought her gloves odd, he kept it well-hidden. He did, however, become a touch concerned as he peered up at her face. "Are you quite alright, dear? You're looking rather pale."

"Am I?" she asked, fully aware that the staggering energy of the room was demanding every ounce of self-control she had to stay conscious. "I will admit I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed, at the moment."

"It is quite a lot to take in, your first time," Flitwick offered generously.

Ariadne turned back to the man at her right. She had been too distracted by his aura at first to really see what he looked like. He was in his late 20s, perhaps on the cusp of 30. She took in the limp curtains of obsidian hair that framed a rather large nose and two very, very dark eyes.

Those eyes lingered briefly on her gloves before darting away.

"I don't believe I caught your name," she prompted.

The man looked around the room with a disinterested expression. He sounded thoroughly bored as he replied, "Severus Snape. I doubt our paths will cross often."

Ariadne hummed, bemused. "Yes, you do seem rather solitary."

His attention snapped back to her, poised to meet any trace of hostility. When he found none, his countenance grew even more suspicious.

Dumbledore stood before either of them could continue. The hall quieted has he raised a hand and began his grand speech.

To her dismay, Ariadne could not find it within herself to focus. The ceasless pulsing of the magical energy in the room never once abated. She began to feel distinctly like great lead weights were tied around her neck and each of her limbs.

Dumbledore's voice had all but faded entirely until she realized with a lurch that he had spoken her name.

Every face in the room had turned toward her. She steeled herself, drawing in a slow breath.

With great effort, she stood and smiled graciously to the room. She hoped the students couldn't see the beads of sweat on her forehead as she raised a gloved hand in greeting.

It proved to almost be too much. She collapsed, rather than sat, back in her seat. Black spots danced before her eyes. It was only by sheer willpower that she remained upright through the sorting.

The moment the students were given their cue to leave, she felt, rather than saw, Dumbledore draw near.

"Very well done, Ariadne," he said, resting a hand on her shoulder. "Professor Snape, would you please see to it that Professor Silverthorn receives a double-dose of Invigoration Draught?"

Ariadne looked weakly in Professor Snape's direction. He observed her calculatingly.

"Severus," Dumbledore said. "As soon as possible."

Snape straightened, coming to himself. "Of course, Headmaster."

To her Ariadne's great relief, the students had all departed the Great Hall by the time Dumbledore and Minerva helped her to her feet. Strengthened significantly by the lack of auras, she righted herself, thanked them quietly, and followed Professor Snape's billowing black figure from the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) and so it begins


	3. Thin Ice

"This way."

Professor Snape said nothing more as he glided silently ahead, down, down into the dark dungeons of the castle. He was determined to maintain a fair amount of distance between them - his brisk stride kept him several feet ahead, even as she pushed through her debilitating fatigue to keep up.

He didn't slow as he shoved open the door to the potions classroom, illuminating the room with a careless flick of his wand. Professor Snape went to work immediately, rummaging through a drawer at his desk.

Ariadne dropped onto one of the stools where the students completed their classwork. Partly to keep herself awake, she took stock of the bleak room. Rows and rows of glass jars covered almost every inch of the walls - some tall and fragile, some squat and opaque. Jobberknoll feathers, hemlock, iguana blood, lacewing flies...the classroom reserves were extensive. She couldn't see inside the tall armoirs at the back of the room, but she had no doubt that they were likewise filled to the brim with supplies.

Head in her hand, she blinked blearily, eyes sliding back toward the potions master. He was clearly in his element. In quick, precise movements, he pinched spriggs of alihotsy leaves, dashed honeywater, poured crushed peppermint. All the while, he kept a ladel moving within the cauldron with rhythmic circles of his wand. The scent of something curiously akin to citrus filled the dark space.

Ariadne closed her eyes and drifted. The bubbling of the cauldron had a rather soothing effect, and soon she was floating near the precipice of dreams and reality. Either the potions master was even quicker than his title would suggest, or she had truly lost her concept of time. Suddenly, he was before her.

"Congratulations," he drawled, and Ariadne jolted upright. "You're the first person to fall asleep in this classroom who is tragically immune from a considerable deduction of House points."

Her sluggish brain took a few seconds to kick in to gear.

Physically, he struck quite an imposing figure. His robes seemed to elongate his substantial height, the black fabric cascading from his shoulders to pool at his feet. His dark eyes swallowed light rather than reflecting it. They betrayed nothing, nor did his forbidding, downturned mouth. His appearance, constructed to be unreadable, elicited a curious twinge of sadness in Ariadne.

"They did say being faculty would have its perks," she replied, mouth twisting.

She eyed the blue vial in his hand, which contained a steaming liquid the consistency of eggnog. He made no move to give it to her. She met his eyes again, and something strange happened.

Almost imperceptible, a faint, ghostly presence prodded the outermost region of her mind. It circled her consciousness once, twice - confused - then prodded a little more firmly. Something snapped, and it recoiled instantly, disappearing without a trace.

The briefest flicker of surprise crossed Snape's face, and was gone.

She held a level gaze with him. "If there's something you'd like to know, all you need to do is ask."

"That wasn't Occlumency," he said slowly.

"No, it wasn't." Ariadne remained quiet, then said, "It was like staring at your own reflection, right? A mirror of your own emotions and magic."

He looked down at her gloves again, and a kind of restrained recognition dawned on his face.

He grimaced. "An empath."

"Don't worry," she said. "I can't read thoughts. Just auras."

"And what exactly do those tell you?" he sneered.

"Well," she said carefully. "Emotions and magic are tied so closely together, it tells me quite a lot about both."

"Wonderful," Snape turned away, flicking his wand so that the beakers and cauldrons began to scrub themselves. "Neither as useful as Legilimency, nor entertaining as Divination. I really must applaud the Headmaster. He has accomplished an astounding feat to hire someone more useless than Quirrell."

She observed him for a long moment, then said, "You don't have to be so nervous. I'm not here to expose anyone."

He spun on her, nostrils flaring, and hissed, "Then I would kindly ask you to refrain from making any sort of judgments about my state of mind, nervous, apathetic, or otherwise."

"Oh, that wasn't an empath thing," she said, only a little surprised at the speed of his retort - like a python coiled to strike. "You just, erm, haven't handed me the potion yet."

His lip curled. As if to make a point, he stalked over to her and dropped the vial unceremoniously into her hand, rather than floating it from where he stood.

Looming over her, he softly continued, "And if you're not here to... _expose_ anyone, as you put it, then why are you here? We all saw your little show in the Great Hall. Surely someone of your _sensitivities_ would rather be anywhere than in a large crowd of untrained wizards."

"Yes, well," she said, taking a tentative sip of the potion. "You're right on the nose with that one." The tart flavor made her mouth pucker. "Merlin, that's strong. Extra alihotsy?"

He smiled a predatory smile. "Dried billywig. You're avoiding the question, Professor Silverthorn."

"That's because I don't want to answer it, Professor Snape." 

He waited, his two coal-black eyes boring into her.

"You're being rather pushy. Even I think certain things should remain private. I haven't commented on the fact that -"

She quickly looked down at the floor.

"Go on," he said with a degree of menace, "I'm simply dying for you to elaborate."

"I'd really rather not. That would defeat my entire point, wouldn't it?"

He didn't budge.

"Alright. Fine. I haven't commented on the fact that, despite your position at this school, you are absolutely dripping with the taint of dark magic. It's old, but it's unmistakeable, and a part of it is still quite alive. I'm sure that's not an area of your life you want people poking and prodding you about."

A rather preening grin spread across his face. "How unexpectedly astute. But not, I think, what you were originally going to say."

"Unfortunate for you that Legilimency doesn't work on empaths."

"Perhaps," his eyes glittered, "it is yet more unfortunate that Invigoration Draught takes several minutes to kick in - and here you are, drained, weakened, and so easily overpowered. I wonder how much more sensitive an empath is to the 'taint' of dark magic than a normal witch - shall we test the theory?"

Her spine went ramrod straight. He drew back, wary.

When she spoke, her voice sounded unlike her own - harsh, and cold.

"You and I have both known real darkness, Professor Snape. Mock me, but never assume that I can't tell an empty threat when I hear one."

She stood.

"Thank you for the potion."

As she turned to leave, the parting expression on his face told her everything. He'd begun to guess how much she could see.


	4. Writing on the Wall

"Now really, dearie, what did those poor shrivelfigs ever do to you?"

Ariadne blinked, noticing for the first time how her tight grip on the tiny fruits had stained her gardening gloves a deep plum color. 

Professor Sprout had been elbow-deep in the Wiggentree nursery, but had snapped suddenly to attention, no doubt alerted by an infallible sixth sense of knowing when her flora were being manhandled. 

"Oh _no_ ," said Ariadne, flustered. "I _am_ sorry, Pomona - they're so much more delicate than I expected!"

Ariadne stared glumly down at the bruised fruits in her hand. Truthfully, they had been easy enough to pick from the vine - it was after that, when she started thinking about teaching her first class of the year, that she'd absentmindedly squished them in her unyielding dragonhide garden gloves.

Professor Sprout shuffled over, trowel in hand. At her full height, she still only stood about as tall as a kneeling Ariadne.

"Well, nothing that can be done about it now, is there?" she said, eyeballing the carnage. "Looks like you've got a handful in that basket that made it out unscathed, anyway."

Ariadne huffed, stretching her neck and feeling the warm afternoon sun on her back. "Hopefully I haven't done more damage than good," she said, smiling wanly.

Light streamed through the expansive crystal ceiling of the greenhouse, bathing everything in a gentle glow. A faint buzzing filled the air, and to Ariadne's left, some mandrake leaves shivered. Professor Sprout regarded Ariadne from beneath the brim of her tawny hat, then turned to pick up two potted plants with rather twitchy-looking tentacles.

"This may surprise you," said Professor Sprout, diving into another plot of rich, black soil, "but not many people take me up on the offer to help in the garden. For the life of me, can't figure out why," she added, half to herself. She took this moment to smack one of the tentacled plants, which had begun to wrap a sneaky arm around her ankle, with the garden shears. "What I do know, however, is that the people who come here usually have something on their minds."

Ariadne stood, leaning back against the long mahogany table that bisected the room. "Yes," she said softly, watching what looked to be a tiny centaur with wings flit from plant to plant. "I have to admit I've been rather nervous about teaching my first class. I do hope I know what I'm doing," she added, then flushed at hearing the words out loud.

Professor Sprout chuckled. "Thought it might be something like that." 

Wrestling one of the tentacled plants into the ground, she continued, "You know, dearie - Albus handpicks his staff for a reason. Plenty of Ministry folks have tried to - er, how would they put it? 'Safeguard the quality of Britain's magical education' by recommending candidates to teach here, but Albus always finds his own people. Know why that is?"

Ignoring the way her stomach twinged uneasily at mention of the Ministry, Ariadne answered, "I imagine their educational methods might differ from the Headmaster's, somewhat."

"Certainly," Professor Sprout grunted, hoisting the second tentacled plant into its hole. "But it's more than that, I think." The tentacled plant received another swift whack with a trowel. "No one knows this school like Albus Dumbledore. 34 years I'll have taught here, come March, and every year Albus has picked staff members that prove to be exactly what the students need most."

Professor Sprout stood, beating her soil-crusted gloves together like two great chalkboard erasers. She drew near to Ariadne again, looking up at her with kind eyes. "If you're worrying whether you've got the right stuff for the job, don't. Albus has already decided you'll be good for these students, in one way or another."

She patted Ariadne on the arm, eliciting a small dust cloud. "Thank you, Pomona," Ariadne said, stifling a cough.

Ariadne watched the woman waddle away, her butter-yellow aura suffusing the space around her with warmth. It really was amazing how the plants seemed to sense it, too - they bended and waved toward her in the gentlest of dances as she passed.

Ariadne tried to take comfort in the witch's words, but how could she? How could Dumbledore know Ariadne would be good for these students, when she had never demonstrated herself to be of much good to anyone?

Ariadne stooped low, crouching between the shrivelfigs and the asphodel bush, and stripping off her own cumbersome gloves. The asphodel had just begun to sprout long, graceful pods, looking like white Christmas lights on a verdant vine. Only a few of them had bloomed, but not very impressively, even in Ariadne's amateur opinion.

Musing on Professor Sprout's nurturing magical energy, she caressed a folded petal. It was velvet soft beneath her thumb. To her surprise, the flower quivered at her touch, emitting a soft glow as it yawned open to reveal stripes of candied orange on snowdrop white.

She stared, only vaguely aware of Professor Sprout greeting someone at the far end of the greenhouse. Ariadne hadn't known that asphodel had any sort of magical stimulus response - as far as she knew, it was a mundane plant, as tame as a Muggle tulip.

Curious, she repeated the caress on a neighboring bud, channeling the image of Professor Sprout's gentle yellow aura. It, too, bloomed fully, its half-crescent petals stretching to form another enormous white and orange flower.

She repeated the experiment again and again, hardly believing it. By the time she became aware of the voices approaching her, the entire bush was dripping with the largest and most beautiful asphodel flowers she'd ever seen.

"...and I'll need Gurdyroot, as well, if you have any extra to spare," a low voice intoned.

"Ha! It's a wonder I have any left at all, with how much your first years seem to - _Merlin's beard!_ "

At Professor Sprout's exclamation, Ariadne jolted, rising to her feet so quickly that she almost fell into the mandrakes. She spun rather guiltily to face the squat woman and saw that Professor Snape was trailing behind her like a tall, black shadow.

"Oh," Ariadne said.

Professor Sprout's dumfounded expression might have made her laugh, had it not been for Snape's equally unfriendly one. He obviously had not been aware of her presence until she popped up like a daisy from behind the asphodel bush. He looked genuinely startled, but was trying to hide it - nostrils flared, his mouth pinched in a firm, white line. He said nothing while Professor Sprout babbled.

"Now how in blazes did you - I've been trying to get these stubborn little blighters to bloom for weeks! They're the most finnicky cut I've had in years." She waddled over to inspect the asphodels up close. "What did you use? Hydration charm? Soil enrichment spell?"

"Nothing actually, I just - er - touched them."

Ariadne felt a peculiar flush creeping up her cheeks. She felt exposed, somehow - she found herself wishing that she'd discovered this new ability in private.

She surreptitiously slid her borrowed gardening gloves back over her hands, and could feel Professor Snape's calculating gaze following every move, though she avoided eye contact.

"Professor Silverthorn is a magical empath," he said simply.

"Goodness me!" said Professor Sprout. "You must be quite a strong one then, dearie! Lie detection and lots of headaches, sure, but projecting onto plants to make them grow? I've never heard of such a thing!"

"I didn't know I could," Ariadne said softly. "Never had much of a chance to garden."

"Well, we've certainly found a way for you to make up for the shrivelfigs, haven't we?"

Professor Sprout gave a few more incredulous exclamations over the asphodels before remembering that she had been in the middle of gathering several items for Professor Snape.

"Don't trouble yourself, Pomona," he said, moving to leave. "I shall return when you are less preoccupied."

"Nonsense, I've got them gathered on the work bench right now. Wait here, I'll be back in a jiffy."

Professor Sprout shuffled away before either of them could object. 

Again, Ariadne found herself seized with the inappropriate urge to laugh. Professor Snape kept his face carefully blank, looking almost bored - but the way his aura squirmed made it obvious that he was vastly uncomfortable. It rather reminded Ariadne of a bug caught under a microscope.

She turned away wordlessly, crouching to collect the last few crushed shrivelfigs and drop them into the basket. It was clear the man was unnerved to no end by the prospect of being unable to hide what he felt. As distasteful as she had found his hollow attempt to scare her off with dark magic the other evening, she still didn't like seeing the unease she inspired - it reminded her too strongly of what she had been at the Ministry, and what she was trying to leave behind.

She wasn't sure whether it was his physical presence or the cool, languid energy of his aura that tipped her off - but gradually, she became aware that he had drawn closer, and was standing over her as she collected the bruised fruits.

Without turning to look at him, she offered airily, "Excited for classes to begin, then, Professor Snape?"

"Oh yes," he said dryly, "I am absolutely thrilled to see the increasingly creative ways the little dunderheads seek to poison, gas, or otherwise combust themselves with each passing year."

The sound of her laugh startled both of them. She felt his gaze trained on her as she stood to set the basket on the long mahogany table. "I guess it's a good thing they have you to prevent that from happening," she replied.

After a beat, he spoke again, his voice sounding dangerously nonchalant. "One would imagine that empaths, being so skilled in the emotional realm, would be more adept at hiding their own feelings. Or perhaps it is because they are so busy prying into the private sentiments of others that they forget to have any tact with regard to themselves. What do you think, Professor Silverthorn?"

"I think," she said, finally meeting his dark eyes, "it's curious that you seem to equate emotion with something that must be hidden."

He sneered. "Fools who display their emotions for all to see give easy ammunition to their enemies. It is the worst kind of weakness."

In a quiet, matter-of-fact tone, she said, "I suppose that makes you quite weak before me, then."

Professor Snape flinched violently. His cheeks flushed a strange kind of mottled red.

"How _dare_ \- " he began to hiss.

"I'm merely using your own logic," she said detachedly. "If bearing your emotions is weakness, then by default, you would be quite vulnerable before me. Your magical aura swirls around you with a practiced air of deception - quite impressive, I have to say - I doubt anyone on earth could make you spill secrets that you desire to keep quiet. But even your misdirection doesn't hide that light at your core. It's that light that drives you. Why anyone would be so desperate to hide the best part of themselves is a mystery even to me. What do _you_ think, Professor Snape?"

He had gone absolutely white with rage. He took a step toward her.

The look in his eyes made her blanch, and for a brief moment, she felt a twinge of real fear. 

Before she even had the sense to step back, he had spun on his heel, bounding from the room in a violent swish of robes.

Professor Sprout reappeared, carrying a box of assorted herbs and roots in her arms.

"Here you are, Professor Sna - " she managed, before Snape blew completely past her, not sparing even a second glance.

Professor Sprout was struck speechless. Her eyes followed him until he rounded the corner leading back into the castle and disappeared from view.

She closed her mouth, turning to Ariadne. "Heavens. What on earth did you do to poor Professor Snape?"


	5. Lessons

Ariadne took a long, drawn-out breath as she stood before the wrought iron doors that separated her from the muffled scufflings of a full classroom.

She tightened her gloves with a firm tug. _Can't stand here forever_ , she told herself.

She gave the doors a great push. Almost instantly, the whispers of the students ceased.

Ariadne swept into the room with a measured pace, her amethyst robes trailing behind her. She said nothing as she ascended the teacher's dais at the front of the room. Only the faint ticking of the Muggle grandfather clock in the corner interrupted the expectant silence.

The third years stared up at her from their desks - some with closed suspicion, some with naked curiosity. Since her swoon at the Sorting Ceremony, Ariadne had opted to receive her meals privately via house elf, avoiding the regular gatherings in the Great Hall where students and faculty mixed together. Naturally, this deprived the students of the ability to size up Hogwarts' new staff member - though from what she heard, it hadn't dampened the vibrance of the rumors swirling around the hallways. 

Her personal favorite rumor was that she had recently returned from a five-year expedition in magical Cambodia to find the rare double-ended newt, and was therefore overwhelmed seeing so many people after years of jungle isolation.

_Not too off, that last bit_ , she thought wryly.

It was immediately apparent who would be stirring up the most trouble. This first class was an even split of Slytherins and Hufflepuffs, and while she certainly detected studious energy on both sides, the auras of one group of Slytherins at the back of the room showed plainly that they were itching to test their odd new teacher. One particular boy's russet glow flickered with impressive disdain.

Ariadne's eyes slid over the boy, regarding the class for long moment.

"Who here can tell me why we teach Muggle Studies at Hogwarts?" she asked in a clear voice.

"Been asking myself that same question," said the boy near the back. His seatmate sniggered.

Ariadne smiled to herself. "I suspected you might be the first to speak up, Mr. - ?"

The boy quirked a perplexed eyebrow beneath his strawberry-blonde hair. He quickly regained his bravado. 

"Caius Travers," he declared, without a hint of remorse. 

"Quite," Ariadne said kindly. She bent to plug in a battered-looking projector. The students blinked as a shuddering image appeared on the screen hanging at the front of the room.

"Mr. Travers, can you tell me what this is?"

The grainy photograph showed two large blurs: one, a sphere of mottled black and white, the other, a swirling half-moon of white and grey.

Caius smirked, wrinkling his upturned nose. "Some stupid Muggle's thumb in front of the camera, maybe?"

His companion, a gaunt boy with a reedy laugh, sniggered again. A few of the other students had the good grace to squirm in discomfort. Others watched with mild interest to she if she'd take the bait.

"Oh, come now, Mr. Travers," Ariadne said, unperturbed. "Show of hands, who can identify this picture?"

Six students raised their hands tentatively. "Good, good. Now, keep those hands raised if you're Muggleborn."

All six students kept them raised.

"Dear me, Mr. Travers, it seems your Muggleborn classmates know something you don't."

The boy opened his mouth, but Ariadne cut through him. "Who can tell me a spell that allows you to apparate 386,000 kilometers in one go?"

The classroom of third years looked around at each other.

"No? How about a charm to survive a temperature of negative 173 degrees centigrade?" Silence. "Perhaps a spell to counteract the effects of three times the force of gravity that we have here in this classroom?"

The Muggleborn students had curious smiles on their faces. Everyone else looked downright confused.

"I've never even heard of that kind of magic, Professor," said one girl with two auburn plaits draped over her shoulders, slowly. "I don't think it exists."

Ariadne hummed. "Thank you, Miss - ?"

"Fernsby. Eleanor," the girl said.

"Well done, Miss Fernsby. That's correct. There's not a single witch or wizard alive who could have taken this picture by help of their magic alone. In fact, I'm sorry to say, they would have died long before they could even get close."

She took a step down from her dais to wander through the rows of desks that lined the classroom in three neat columns. "My dear students, thirty years ago, Muggles looked into vast, gaping expanse of space. Ten years later, they achieved the single greatest feat of ingenuity that humanity - magical or non-magical - could have ever imagined."

Students craned their necks to watch her proceed down the aisle. She snapped her wand out from beneath her robes, and at once the roof of the classroom disappeared, expanded, and drew nearer. The vastness of space and its glittering array of billions of stars descended on the students like a velvet cloud, burning brighter and nearer than the serene illusion that usually swirled above them in the Great Hall. They gaped at the display, starlight shining on their faces.

"Muggles looked out into the most hostile environment imaginable, and they dreamed. They saw unbeatable odds, and they persisted. They kissed their families goodbye and knew they may not return. With steel in their veins and stars in their eyes, they reached out higher and higher, until at last they found themselves here," Ariadne twisted, gesturing to the projection at the front of the room. "Looking down at the tiny blue marble they called home. Standing on the moon."

Ariadne raised her hands before her, and made a motion like she was smoothing a large piece of parchment. Gradually, the inky midnight sky receded from the students. Not a single one moved.

"Muggles do things _not_ because they are easy, but because they are hard," she said with the ghost of a smile. "And though they may occasionally stick their thumbs in front of camera lenses, they are capable of infinitely more." She met each set of eyes that stared unblinkingly up at her, one student at a time. 

She lingered for a long moment on the scowling face of Caius Travers. "That is why we teach Muggle Studies at Hogwarts."

***

The last of the students filed out of the room, and Ariadne sagged against her desk. Her first day as a professor had finally come to an end.

She had taken no less than three classes through her syllabus for the year, spending the first few minutes of each class attempting to dispossess the students immediately of any notions of wizard superiority. By the third class, she almost wondered if she had gone too far - a few of the Gryffindor students had a feverish hunger in their eyes as their hands shot up with questions about Muggle astronauts. Several times, she had to gently remind the Ravenclaws that calculating the amount of fuel it would take to get to the moon strayed a little far from the point she was trying to make. 

Her second block of Slytherins were remarkably respectful, despite a few skeptical eyebrows. And the Hufflepuffs seemed absolutely enamored by her, as a new staff addition from their own House - though she imagined they would have been equally thrilled with any new Hufflepuff teacher, so long as they breathed and held a wand.

The only real problem, she thought as she massaged her throbbing temple, was how she would manage to teach three classes a day, four days a week, as well as help Pomona in the greenhouse, without overextending herself. Teaching a class of twenty budding wizards was nothing like experiencing the magical energy of several hundred at once in the Great Hall, but it still took quite a toll.

By Tuesday, she felt like she had spent eight hours surrounded by honking trucks in a crowded intersection. By Wednesday, she was a mere shade, despite having slept a solid twelve hours the previous three nights. That also happened to be the day when the students' first-week-manners were finally beginning to wear off.

She was in the middle of writing a note on the board about the importance of understanding Muggle vernacular, her back to the class, when she felt a very slight shift in the energy of the room - gentle as the beat of a butterfly's wings.

"Mr. Thorpe," she said, still facing the board, "I believe I mentioned at the very beginning of the session that there would be no magic allowed in my classroom. Especially not for floating origami swans to Miss Foxfield, as captivating as she may be. Five points from Gryffindor."

"How did - I'm not -" objected the strangled voice of Mr. Thorpe. Ariadne could practically hear the blush in his voice as he finished lamely, "Yes, Professor."

She never openly told the students that she was an empath, but she suspected it wouldn't be long before rumors of double-ended newts turned into chagrined whispers that she had eyes in the back of her head.

The last class of the day finally ended, and Ariadne had to grip edge of her desk to avoid toppling over as she sat. The door opened with a tentative knock before she could catch her breath.

"Excuse me, Professor Silverthorn?"

Ariadne recognized the thick auburn braids and rectangular glasses from her first period class. She swallowed her exhaustion. "Eleanor Fernsby, was it?"

The girl's round face hovered anxiously by the door. "May...may I come in?"

"Yes, of course. Please come take a seat."

Ariadne waited patiently as she settled into the chair. Eleanor Fernsby was a timid-looking girl, with a waddling sort of gait, softspoken voice, and aura of robin's egg blue.

She bit her lip, and glanced furtively up at Ariadne from beneath the bridge of her glasses. "I, erm."

Ariadne smiled gently, but as she took in the girl's quivering blue magic, her smile faded. "Is everything alright, Eleanor?"

Eleanor flushed down to the roots of her ruby hair. "Oh, yes, I just - well, Professor Silverthorn, I'm so terribly sorry but I have to drop your class this term," she blurted.

Ariadne blinked. "Oh?"

"Yes, you see, I have double Runes before this class, and with the extra credit research I volunteered to do for Professor Baulder, I couldn't possibly stay in this block and expect to get a passing grade, so I'm hoping to delay your course and take it next term instead." The words rushed out of her like helium from a balloon.

"I see," Ariadne said, her eyes never leaving the girl. "Well, of course, I respect your decision to withdraw, if that's your wish. I would never want to interfere with your other studies."

Eleanor gave a slight, strained smile.

"But I would also like you to know that, no matter what the real reason is, you don't have to hide it from me. I may be a new professor, but I will always do everything in my power to help my students - especially when they feel they have no one else to turn to, and especially my Hufflepuffs."

Eleanor's wide eyes grew wet with tears. She snatched her glasses off and muffled a small sob in her sleeve. "I must be an even - _hic_ \- worse liar than I thought I was."

Ariadne floated a box of tissues over the desk with a gentle flourish of her wand. "You're no worse than anyone else, really." Eleanor blew her nose with a small honk. "May I ask - is it because you don't see the use in Muggle Studies? I know some students have a hard -"

"NO!" the girl said, rather aghast. "No, no, it's the opposite! I _loved_ your first class, but I must have rather loved it too much, because I heard some boys laughing about how it was a shame that more Muggles hadn't managed to blow themselves up getting to the moon, and before I knew it I was telling Caius what a _horrid_ thing that was to say - "

She bit down on her lip. 

"It's alright, go on," Ariadne encouraged, attempting to keep her face impassive.

"Well - since I apparently love Muggles so much, they've made it their personal mission to use me for target practice for all the hexes they're learning in Defense and I - I just want it to stop, and if I drop this class then I can mostly avoid them in the hallways and - "

"I think," Ariadne said, "that I'm going to have a talk with these students."

"No, you _musn't_ ," Eleanor hissed in a fearful whisper. "They said they'd hex me until worms grew out of my ears if I told anyone! _Please_ , Professor Silverthorn, don't!"

Ariadne thought for a moment. "Well, I suppose it doesn't have to come directly from me - but this behavior is unacceptable, and certainly needs to be addressed. I'll speak to Professor Snape about it, as their Head of House."

Eleanor didn't look like that made her feel much better. "Professor...Snape? But I don't think..." She paled. Looking down at her hands again, she mumbled, "He's worse than they are."

"Nonsense," said Ariadne, knowing full well that it was likely anything but. "The responsibility of protecting the students of Hogwarts is as much Professor Snape's duty as the rest of the staff. I'm certain he's already aware." Internally, she winced, remembering how successful her last interaction with the taciturn man had been. After a moment, she added, "And if he's not, then I'll be sure to remind him."

"Al...alright," said Eleanor, looking like she'd signed her own death warrant.


	6. Friends and Foes

The faculty stirred from their seats, which were arranged in a wide semi-circle before the Headmaster's desk. 

Dumbledore had just dismissed the first staff meeting of the school year, providing some twinkling reminders of the latest banned magical objects, and announcing that this year, at least, the Forbidden Forest was out of the question for school detentions. It seemed that there was some kind of blood feud between two warring centaur tribes, and Dumbledore was unwilling to let any students near it.

This, evidently, was much to the gamekeeper's chagrin. The half-giant had seated himself next to Ariadne halfway into Dumbledore's speech, taking up two creaking chairs in the process.

"A shame, tha' bit about the Forest," he said, only half to her. "It's always nice to have a few extra set o' hands fer catchin' the leapin' toadstools. Not ter mention, the way those centaurs're fired up right now, I doubt they'd notice a human in the Forest if one yanked 'em right on their silly tails." As if he just realized it, he added, "I don' think we've met befer! Rubeus Hagrid, but everyone jus' uses the Hagrid part."

His large, meaty hand swallowed hers. She grinned. "Ariadne Silverthorn, the new Muggle Studies teacher. Just Ariadne is fine."

The man's good nature radiated from him in massive waves of seafoam green - though she noted with some curiosity, his magic was untrained and almost dormant with disuse.

"Ariadne," he said genially, "Wha' a beautiful name! Knew a man with a flobberworm named Ariadne once. She was his pride an' joy! Plum distraught when he accidentally sat on her, he was."

Ariadne's lips twitched as she fought to keep her face serene. Yes, she definitely liked Hagrid. 

"I'm curious, Hagrid - what's the most stunning creature you've ever seen in the Forbidden Forest?"

Hagrid's entire being lit up. Without any further prompting, he launched into a lengthy discourse on the aesthetic merits of thestrals versus unicorns. Ariadne would have thought the choice between the two fairly obvious, but Hagrid was clearly enamored by both.

She listened happily, watching how his green energy brightened and swished enthusiastically around him. Suddenly, it jerked, like someone stumbling mid-step. She looked up to find Hagrid's eyes trained on something several feet behind her. 

"What is it?" she asked, turning to follow his gaze. As she did so, she caught a familiar flash of black robes disappearing into the hall.

Between Dumbledore's speech and Hagrid's excitement, she hadn't even felt Professor Snape's magical signature arrive. He must have spent the whole meeting in the shadows at the back of the room, standing apart from the rest of the staff like some self-imposed outcast. Ariadne stood, remembering her promise to Eleanor.

Hagrid cleared his throat. "I er, take it you've already met Professor Snape, then."

"Why do you ask?"

"He was givin' a right unfriendly look in this direction before he left. Usually, I'd assume it was fer me, but I haven't even had time yet this year ter pilfer any o' his supplies as creature food, or the like."

Ariadne set her mouth in a firm line. "Yes, I'm afraid that look was probably meant for me. I'm sorry, Hagrid, but I do actually have something to discuss with Professor Snape. It was lovely meeting you."

She narrowly avoided being drawn into another conversation with Professor Sprout, whose eyes were gleaming somewhat disturbingly as she began to explain her ideas for using Ariadne's abilities to crossbreed dangerous magical plants. Throwing an apology over her shoulder, Ariadne trotted out the door.

The hall was a swirling sea of black cloaks, students weaving back and forth on their way to class. The sea had parted to give Professor Snape a wide berth as he swooped around the corner at the end of the hall.

"Professor Snape," she called, stepping smartly to catch up with him. A few students looked up at the sound of her voice. Reluctantly, Snape slowed, turned on his heel, and looked down at her with a pursed mouth, as if he had caught a whiff of something highly unpleasant. 

"My my, looking rather spent, aren't we Professor Silverthorn? Tired of sticking your nose into everyone's secrets already? It must be quite the drain."

"I have something I'd like to speak with you about," Ariadne replied, glossing over the personal jabs.

"And I am certain that whatever it is, another of our colleagues would be of greater use to you than I." He turned on his heel to stride purposefully away.

"Actually," she said, bounding forward to block his path, to his stormy disbelief, "it's a matter which concerns you, specifically. One of student discipline."

His violently dark aura calmed just a fraction, and the realization hit Ariadne that he had been expecting her to bring up their last conversation - where she'd seen fit to fling in his face how painfully inadequate his hardwon defenses were with her.

She felt something like shame begin to constrict her chest. 

Voice still dripping with disdain, he replied, "Do make it quick. Not all of us have the free time that comes naturally with teaching..." His lips curled. "...Muggle Studies."

She sighed. Something twinged in the back of her mind, and she briefly turned her attention to the group of first years standing across the hall, pointing in their direction and whispering with unabashed interest.

Despite his decided lack of empathic abilities, Snape was also remarkably quick to pick up on the loitering bunch. He shot a look in their direction that would have sent a mountain troll running. They scattered immediately.

Seemingly of one mind, the two professors stepped into the empty Transfiguration classroom to continue. A large, medieval-looking bird roosted on its perch at the front of the room next to Professor McGonagall's desk. Removed from the backdrop of bustling students, Snape still seemed to be the tallest thing in the room.

Eleanor's distress bubbled up in Ariadne's mind, along with the secondhand panic that had bled from the poor girl in desperate waves. 

Without preamble, Ariadne began, "It's come to my attention that there is a bullying issue between some members of your house and mine. The victim wishes to remain anonymous, but the problem is severe enough that they are considering dropping my class just to avoid being in the same room as their attackers."

A look approaching incredulity appeared on Professor Snape's face. "And you are disclosing this to me because...?" 

She'd expected something along those lines. Unperturbed, she continued, "Because I'm afraid these students seem the type to only be dissuaded from their actions with appropriate disciplinary measures."

His face went blank, and his shrewd eyes beheld her for a long moment. At last, he said, "Forgive me. I'm shocked by my own dizzying miscalculation of your intelligence. Are you telling me that you, a Hogwarts professor, have yet to grasp the concept of disciplining the students by house point deduction?"

"I'm quite certain you heard me say ' _appropriate_ 'disciplinary measures, Professsor," she replied. "Something as trivial as the deduction of made-up points certainly will not teach these students the impact of their actions on another human being. Additionally, as I wasn't present during the attacks, my post-facto intervention would merely throw suspicion on the victim, and likely just incense the culprits more."

"How incredible," he hissed, jaw working impatiently, "that a school system which has worked for thousands of years has finally unravelled in the face of your omniscient wisdom. I must congratulate you for that victory, but I still fail to see how you envision my assistance factoring into this equation."

She pressed her lips together and fixed him with a keen stare. "Naturally, as Head of Slytherin House, you exist to ensure that your students' behavior rises to a standard befitting this school. At the very least, you exist to ensure that the stereotype of all Slytherins being bullies becomes a little less true with each graduating class."

Again, he was silent. His words came through gritted teeth when he spoke next. "I assure you, capacity for cruelty at this school is not limited to a single house." 

She watched as his magic darkened and drew in on itself. 

"All the more reason to stop it wherever it occurs, then," she replied quietly.

He stiffened. His black eyes glittered maliciously from beneath his imperious brow, and she had a feeling she wasn't going to like what he said next.

"Unfortunately, it seems I suffer from the same limitations as yourself in this instance, Professor Silverthorn. As I did not see the alleged misbehavior take place, it would be cruel to attribute such _stereotypical_ behavior to my own House without sufficient evidence - would it not?"

"Professor Snape -" she started, but he cut her off.

"Not to mention, I wonder at the character of this so-called _victim_ \- a person who drops a class at the first sign of the slightest inconvenience must necessarily be a jelly-boned, pathetic halfwit, hardly worthy of the cost of their robes. Perhaps, in the future, consider basing your self-righteous cries for justice on more than just the passing whims of emotional children."

He turned to leave. 

"Professor Snape," Ariadne repeated sharply, taking a step closer. He stopped, but didn't turn back to face her.

She drew in a steadying breath and sighed again. "I want to...I owe you an apology for the other day."

She watched as her words had the opposite of the intended impact. Still refusing to face her, he stiffened yet more, drawing himself up to his full height. Animosity stirred the magic around him into an indignant black maelstrom.

She kept going.

"It's not my usual practice to tell people truths about themselves they don't want to hear." She looked toward the window for a moment, echoes of her own words in the greenhouse floating back to her. "I told you I wasn't here to expose anyone, but that's exactly what I did - and I'm sorry for it."

Without warning, he whipped around to face her, nostrils flared, a venomous retort on his lips.

"However," she continued calmly, staring straight into the black eyes that were filled with cold fury. "I will not allow your personal disdain for me to be the cause of any harm that befalls my students. If you won't do anything to punish the bullying that's already happened, then please - at least help me keep an eye on them so it doesn't happen again."

He moved in one fluid step, the energy around him coalescing like a frozen dagger. "What it must be like, to be so thoroughly convinced that the world would cease to spin without you at its center. Take care, Professor Silverthorn," his words dripped acid as he advanced toward her with reptilian smoothness, "The most conceited wizards always fail to notice the enemies they've made until it's too late."

Ariadne gave a sad smile. "If it meant protecting the students, my downfall would be a small price to pay."

His expression was unreadable. Suddenly, the classroom doors blew open. Ariadne jumped, but Snape straightened languorously, his eyes remaining trained on her.

Professor McGonagall stepped smartly into the room, her clipped pace leaving a long column of fourth years in the dust. She spouted instructions at them, doing a small double-take when she noticed her two other colleagues.

"May I be of assistance?" she asked pointedly, clearly wondering why they were taking up space in her no-longer-empty classroom.

The sudden surge of magical energy in the room went straight to Ariadne's head. Weakly, she managed, "No, thank you, Professor McGonagall. We were just leaving."

She made her way carefully to the classroom door, feeling like a strong wind might knock her over at any minute. She didn't spare a second glance at Professor Snape, nor did she dwell on the feeling of the stare that burned a hole in her back as she proceeded from the room. 


	7. New Allies

For the first time in 10 years, Professor Snape was taking more points from Hufflepuff than from Gryffindor. And no one had even the foggiest idea why.

Before the phenomenon began, Hufflepuffs had simply skirted around Professor Snape's billowing form in the halls like any other students. Owing to their house legacy, some of the bolder ones had even risked the occasional friendly greeting to their professor, though they still had the sense to scamper out of the way of his general menace. 

Now, they flat-out disappeared, nearly tripping over each other in hysterics to get out of the line of fire, sprinting into adjacent corridors or darting into classrooms the moment their wide-eyed friends nudged them in dismay. A 50-point deduction for "crowding the halls;" a 100-point deduction for "defiant eye contact" - one poor second year had the misfortune of running into Snape with her polo untucked, resulting in a stinging 250 point penalty for "slovenly comportment."

Unused to being the targets of such loathing, the Hufflepuffs had none of the Gryffindors' customary bravado to help soften the blows. It simply was not in their nature. It became a daily occurence to hear of Hufflepuffs bursting into tears in Potions class, and even a handful of sympathetic Slytherins took to distracting their Head of House with a timely cauldron fire or two when things were particularly bad.

The Gryffindors, brazenly chivalrous to a fault, embarked upon a suicide mission to bring balance back to the school. They shouted dirty jokes in the halls, set off dung bombs in the middle of class, did all they could to draw the fire back onto themselves, where it rightfully belonged. Unfortunately, while their efforts did result in exorbitant losses of points and disproportionately long detentions, the Gryffindors still could not outpace the rate at which their milder classmates were relentlessly penalized. 

Ariadne was furious.

When she'd first heard the rumors, she thought the students might be exaggerating. It was Professor Snape, after all. His disdain for the students was the stuff of legend, and legends inspired tall tales.

Her doubts vanished the day she took a detour by the Great Hall on her way to class. As she passed the yawning hall entrance, it caught her eye with a flash - the long, thin hourglasses that tallied points at the very front of the room still gleamed in red, green, and blue, but in the very last glass, there was barely a trace of yellow to be seen. Hufflepuff was practically in the negative.

She locked stares with two dark eyes that found her immediately from the high table. Snape kept his face deliberately vacant, but there was no mistaking the smug satisfaction that rippled lazily through his aura.

Despite herself, Ariadne felt her face burn in anger. She turned on her heel and stalked off.

He was so vindictive, it was unbelievable. This was obviously because of her denigration of the house point system - as if that gave him the excuse to punish a fourth of the entire student population to make a point.

The moment they'd met, she immediately discerned that his life had been full of tragedy. Sorrow etched its way into the rivulets of his magic like posion through a dying stream. She'd been patient with his rancor, because she read the torment there as plain as words on a page. She didn't have to know the exact cause of the pain to have compassion for his suffering - few others could claim even half that understanding of why the man was so taciturn.

But this was really too much. It wasn't coming from pain. It was just petty revenge.

She would not let him get a rise out of her like this. There was no way she'd resort to doing the same thing to the Slytherins - it wasn't their fault their Head of House was such a scoundrel - and she wouldn't stoop to acknowledge this juvenile game by heaping gobs of points back onto the Hufflepuffs for no reason. 

If she acknowledged him, he won.

Guilt swirled with the anger in her veins. She had barely been at the school for five minutes, had barely even tried to help one student, and was already bringing calamity upon her entire house. 

Worst of all, she'd promised to protect Eleanor, and she couldn't even do that.

Her pulse pounded dangerously as she suddenly came upon an empty maintenance corridor. The flickering fires that dimly lit the ancient hallway grew rambunctious. Her gloves heated and magic crackled around her as her anger swelled, the flames leaping up and roaring together in a single blaze that illuminated the hall in a blinding flash.

Someone yelped in Ariadne's ear. 

The flames died immediately, and Ariadne spun around in fright. 

She hadn't even realized she'd - what if a student had been - 

She looked around wildly, but the hallway was empty. 

Her chest remained constricted. To lose her control over something so fleeting, so insignificant - 

"Hello?!" she said in a shaking voice. "Is someone there? Are you alright?"

Two voices spoke in reply, almost in the same moment.

"A few more seconds of that heat and I certainly would _not_ have been!" said a young man, voice cracking with indignation. "I think I can smell my own turpentine!" he added frantically.

An older woman's voice followed with a rather thick Italian-sounding accent: "I think the better question is, are _you_ alright?"

Ariadne craned her neck toward the voices, the realization hitting her. She pulled out her wand and cast a wordless _lumos,_ drawing near to the enormous collection of portraits that stretched endlessly up the wall.

Her wand light fell first on a rustic oak frame, so large that it seemed to dwarf the picture's subject. A girl in a thin white shift stood center-frame, her clear, colorless eyes staring out from two curtains of raven hair. The girl was young and pale as ice, no older than 17. Two enormous gray wolves stood at her sides like ancient guardians, a thick fog misting around their feet as they watched Ariadne.

"Was it you who spoke?" Ariadne asked the girl.

The young man's voice from earlier gave a dignified scoff. "You'll be waiting for a while if you want _her_ to answer you."

"Over here, _bella._ "

The wolf girl watched silently as Ariadne proceeded further down the wall. Her light drifted over another portrait - a solemn-looking samurai in armor the color of midnight, with a single yellow chrysanthemum perched in an elegant vase on the low table next to him - before it illuminated two other figures, who Ariadne assumed to be the speakers by their rapt expressions.

The first portrait was circular and rather small, and featured an antiquated astronomy tower with an enormous iron telescope. A thin, gawky young man sat stiffly before the telescope, the wide Elizabethan ruffle that fanned out from his neck making him look like an incensed frilled lizard.

"Your timing is truly abysmal, whoever you are," he pronounced angrily, before returning his attention to his massive telescope. " _Ophiucus,_ the snake bearer,is supposed to be visible tonight - but it's twice as hard to see when a lunatic is trying to set you on fire."

"Pay him no mind," said the middle-aged woman in the adjacent gilded frame, whose ankles disappeared beneath the gerth of a wide river. She sat up from her washboard, wringing out a sopping dress, and wiped her hands on her red apron. Cows took long, slow drinks from the azure water, shaded by the splendid trees shifting above them like puffy olive clouds. The woman continued, "Cephas is just agitated because they refused to acknowledge his latest, ah, 'discovery.'"

Without looking up from his telescope, Cephas shouted, "You _know_ that star was not part of Orion's Belt, Pasqua! I've already explained it and I am _done_ having this conversation!"

Pasqua chuckled provocatively. "Yes, yes, I'm sure you know better than the entire Astronomer's Guild and their eight centuries of experience, do you not?"

The two portraits dissolved into a fit of bickering. At some point, Pasqua switched over entirely to Italian, punctuating her points with swooping theatrical gestures.

Ariadne found she suddenly lacked the strength to keep her wand arm raised. She sagged against the wall, and slid weakly to the floor.

She couldn't believe how foolish she'd been, to let her emotions go uncontrolled for even a moment. The constant drain of being in the presence of so many wizards was evidently causing more than just exhaustion - it interfered with her ability to quell empathic spillover. This time, she'd been lucky enough to be alone. 

But if she slipped up again, felt more intensely, lost control in the presence of a crowded hall...

Terror squeezed her heart.

She had to be more careful.

" _Mia cara_ ," Pasqua addressed her, and Ariadne realized she and Cephas had fallen silent. "Should I fetch Dumbledore?"

"She is not well," the samurai said, gazing at Ariadne. The wolf girl watched wordlessly.

"No, I - " Ariadne began. "Thank you, but I'm alright."

She slowly got to her feet. As she straightened, her breath caught, brow furrowing.

The magic emitted by the portraits was entirely different from the loud, garish glare of a normal magical signature. Instead, they glowed in a gentle silver haze, fortifying the already pervasive magic of the castle walls. Most significantly, they didn't seem to draw on her magical reserves, tugging ceaselessly at her attention and requiring her to keep up a constant guard.

"How strange..." she murmured, drawing near to Cephas' portrait. Even within his frame, the young astronomer lacked the usual distinctive halo of magic - no color fluctuated or pulsed around him at all.

"Pasqua..." he whined uncomfortably, and Ariadne realized she had drawn quite close to ogle him. 

"Are you sure you would not like us to fetch another professor, _bella_?" Pasqua asked delicately.

A flash of understanding hit Ariadne. "Merlin, that's it." 

Snape wouldn't help her - maybe he'd do the exact opposite, in fact - but she could still find a way to protect Eleanor. She took a step back, seeking the eyes of the four portraits before her. "You see everything that goes on at Hogwarts, don't you?"

Cephas sniffed, straightening his collar. "Well, obviously not all at once."

The samurai spoke up, inching forward slightly in his frame. "If we remain in a given place, we do observe everything that transpires within our line of sight."

"So you see when students are in trouble?" she asked eagerly.

Pasqua laughed to herself. "'Trouble' at this school means more things than you can imagine, _bella_."

"I mean when a student is being bullied," Ariadne clarified. "When they're getting hurt."

The portraits seemed to sadden. Cephas turned away, toward his telescope.

"Yes," Pasqua said softly. "We see that also."

"Help me to prevent it," Ariadne blurted.

The portraits looked at her with varying expressions of surprise.

"Help you how?" Cephas asked suspiciously.

"I can feel their distress - when it's happening," she said, gesturing to her chest. "I can theoretically even tell where it's happening. But there's so much raw magic at this school, so many people - it's like looking for one hue in a watercolor painting. It's impossible for me to pick it out from the noise, to know when it's about to happen. You can warn me. I can get there in time and stop it."

"You are an empath," the samurai observed. Ariadne nodded.

In the background, Cephas muttered waspishly, "That would explain the spontaneous combusting."

Pasqua interrupted, "That is very noble, _mia cara_ , but - why do you seek this method? It seems rather, ah, involved. The other professors...they don't, ah...go to these extremes."

"The other professors have their methods of watching over the students, I'm sure," Ariadne replied, Professor McGonagall's stern face appearing in her mind. Snape's scowling one replaced it. "The ones that bother, anyway. I made a promise to protect a student from her abusers - without your help, I have no way to guarantee her safety." The dim light cast long shadows on the weathered stone walls. "Please."

Without looking up from his telescope, Cephas haughtily said, "I don't really see what we'd be getting out of this arrangement."

The samurai's eyes flashed. His head snapped in Cephas' direction. "You hang in this school, do you not? You have been given a home by the Headmaster, whose duty it is to defend these walls and the students inside them. Be silent before you bring even greater shame upon yourself."

Cephas looked like a boy as he sat up from his telescope, cheeks aflame. "You're - yes, Nobu, you're right."

Pasqua stood from the river, her hem two shades darker. She pushed up her sleeves. "But of course we will help you, _mia cara_. You need only have asked."

Over the course of the next few weeks, Ariadne's new allies became invaluable assets. Pasqua, Cephas, Nobu, and Bronwyn - as Ariadne learned the ever-silent wolf girl was called - made use of the vast portrait network at their disposal, keeping a constant watch over Eleanor. They took shifts, ensuring that at least one person was following her through the frames at all times, and that one kept a sharp eye on the deserted parts of the castle the bullies favored. When Ariadne happened to pass Eleanor in the halls, she greeted the girl warmly, exchanging a sly smile with Pasqua as her eyes drifted up the wall.

Ariadne carefully limited herself to solitary activities, to avoid anymore emotional drain than what was absolutely necessary in her classroom. When she found herself craving company after a long day in the greenhouse, again, the portraits offered an excellent solution with their untaxing magical presence.

One afternoon, as she sat composing a letter in her private chambers, she felt a pain like a dull knife twist suddenly in her chest, and the quill fell from her hand.

Almost immediately, Nobu appeared in the modest oil landscape that hung by her mirror.

"Eleanor?" Ariadne asked, jumping to her feet.

"No," he said gravely, "But you should follow me at once."


	8. Breaking Point

Nobu flicked in and out of the frames as she sprinted alongside him. As she rounded the corner, her stomach dropped to her feet - like the floor had been pulled out from beneath her. Inexplicable, blind panic left her gasping, and it took a moment to realize the panic didn't belong to her.

"No, _please_ don't -" said a weak voice, high-pitched with desperation. 

Further down the corridor, a small clump of students huddled oddly near the wall. Cruel laughter echoed in the empty hallway, and someone else's sadistic pleasure reverberated in Ariadne's chest.

"What's that, Knotts?" another voice spoke, and the weaker voice yelped in pain. "Couldn't hear you - d'you think maybe you could speak up?" 

A flash of scarlet light. Another whimper. 

"That's odd - I guess you can only hear him when he's spewing trash about his filthy Muggle mother. What say we use a permanent sticking charm to keep his mouth shut?"

The speaker raised his wand, his russet aura flaring.

" _Enough_ ," Ariadne boomed, her commanding voice hitting the students the same time as her freezing spell. Caius Travers' arm stilled in mid-cast. He was flanked on either side by an immobile Hector Fawley - his sniggering companion from Ariandne's first period class - and a girl with glossy, pin-straight black hair, whose icy eyes Ariadne recognized as belonging to Cressida Blackwood, from third period.

She left the offenders frozen as she knelt on the ground, helping the student who laid puddled there to roll over onto his back. 

The victim was a very small boy for a third year - his flaxen hair was almost the same shade as his pale complexion, giving him an overall ghostly look. She recognized the distress in his spring-green aura, but not before she got a good look at two spectacular black eyes and the split lip that trickled blood onto his collar. It was Oliver Knotts, the quiet Hufflepuff who frequently sat in the front but never raised his hand.

"Can you stand, Oliver?" she asked quietly. The boy's eyes took a moment to focus on her. When they did, he blinked rapidly.

"Professor Silverthorn?" he squeaked.

Ariadne helped him to his feet. Oliver tottered for a moment, but remained upright. She almost breathed a sigh of relief before she realized the milky haze hanging around him wasn't just fear - the boy was going into shock. His magic twitched and sputtered erratically in a strange glow at the place where his neck met his shoulder.

"Oliver," she said with some forced composure. "Your collarbone is broken. I want you to hold still for a moment, alright?"

The boy nodded dumbly. With a careful swish, she conjured a sling from the air and looped it around his arm. "We'll need to get you to Madam Pomfrey to give that a closer look."

At last, she turned her steely eyes to the three Slytherins, unfreezing them with a stiff jerk of her wand. Almost in the same moment, Ariadne felt the the turbulent churn of a familiar energy proceeding lithely up the corridor behind her. 

She didn't waste time contemplating her poor luck, too busy keeping a barely-handled grip on the anger that threatened to spill over. Hector and Cressida blinked confusedly as they regained their bearings, but as Caius lowered his arm, an arrogant grin bloomed across his face.

"Why, hello Professor Snape," he said in the manner of someone who'd just been granted diplomatic immunity, ignoring Ariadne entirely and looking past her shoulder.

Evidently, Snape took a moment to observe the bloody, battered Hufflepuff in the sling. 

"What is the meaning of this?" his silky voice intoned.

Ariadne assumed the question was directed at her, but she said nothing to acknowledge him. Her eyes remained trained on Caius's.

"Do you have anything to say for yourself?" Ariadne asked quietly. "Anything at all?"

Caius continued to grin. "No, Professor Silverthorn, nothing really - just that it's a shame you arrived too late to join in the fun."

The hall was deathly still. "Excuse me?" 

"It was Oliver's idea, you see. He didn't have anyone to play this Muggle game with him - what's it called again, Oliver? 'Beat the witch?' 'Burn the witch?' Something like that. Anyway, he's been begging us to play with him for days, so we finally gave in. I'm sure you would have loved to play with us too, Professor, as great of a Muggle lover as you are."

Caius shot his mirthless grin at the injured boy, who paled further still, and went stiff as a board, sputtering, "Yes, Professor Silverthorn - it, er, was my idea to play."

Snape broke in before she could make further reply. 

"Perhaps playing games in the hallways at night may serve as one explanation for your abysmal grade in Potions, Travers," he spoke coolly. He gave a vague wave, as if to usher the three Slytherin students from the hall. "Enough amusement for one evening. Back to your dormitory."

Ariadne seemed unable to make her jaw work. 

"Amusement?" she bit out, almost too quiet to be heard.

Snape barely turned, regarding her as one might regard a bit of fuzz on their cloak. "Pardon?"

His blank expression - and the preening, basking lilt of his magic - practically made her shake with rage. 

"Would you rather the students kill each other before you acknowledge their behavior as ' _sufficient evidence'_ of wrongdoing, Professor Snape?" she said. "Or is it only having one's shirt untucked that you find a crime punishable by death?"

The students blinked owlishly, eyes darting between their two professors.

Snape's face remained a perfect mask, not a single ripple of emotion betrayed. 

At last, he answered sedately, without breaking eye contact. "Quite right. Knotts - that will be 10 points from Hufflepuff for suggesting a game involving bodily harm to a student."

Caius laughed.

Ariadne felt a great building of pressure in her chest, like a flood rushing up against a dam. She vaguely registered that her three other portrait friends had joined Nobu at some point, and were now shuffling nervously to the outermost edges of their frames.

The air whooshed from the corridor as her gaze turned cold and terrible - the torchlight growing choked, the temperature dropping several degrees. Unbidden magic sparked from her occamy skin gloves in petite tongues of cerulean flame. Several curls tore loose from her braided crown, agitated by the sudden rushing of her magic around her.

Several things happened at once. 

Caius, the grin wiped clean from his face, flinched violently, stumbling back as he looked at her. All traces of the smug bully were gone in an instant. His jerky movement caught Ariadne's eye.

Perhaps it was her surge of power, or perhaps it was the quality of Caius's reaction - but for the first time, she noticed the long, pale fissures that ran the length of his aura - like hairline fractures in a Muggle x-ray. They were of varying ages; some faint with the passage of time, others as clear as day against the backdrop of his orange-tinged energy.

They were the marks of an abused child. 

By the looks of it, someone had been abusing him for a long time - both emotionally and physically, nearly as long as he'd been alive.

Her shoulders sagged. Without thinking, she murmured, "Oh, Caius."

In the same moment, her tunnel-vision expanded outwards, beyond the dreadful truth visible only to her. The realization came to her that when the air had shifted, Snape had moved as well - the subtlest, slightest of movements.

He'd angled himself between her and the students - both Hufflepuff and Slytherin - using his body as a shield.

His calculating eyes were wary and guarded as he watched her, his magic coiled and ready to strike.

A lump rose in her throat. Numbly, she wondered if Snape was even aware of his own infinitesmal maneuver - that his body had betrayed where his true allegiances lay.

"Professor Silverthorn," he said warningly.

She met his eyes again, startled.

"Calm yourself before I'm forced to stun you."

Several seconds of tense silence ticked by as Ariadne came back to herself. She clenched and unclenched her fists.

"Yes, I'm - so terribly sorry." 

The natural warmth of the room returned as she quieted her irregular breathing. Dazed, she looked at Oliver - his face held the same trepidation as the rest of them. Momentarily distracted from his injury by the spectacle before him, his face had regained some of its usual color. 

As if in a dream, she murmured, "Oliver, you need to see Madam Pomfrey. Please, this way."

He didn't look like he would dare disobey. He shuffled to her side wordlessly, wiping a fair amount of blood from his nose with the sleeve of his good arm.

They turned to depart, and Snape spoke again.

"Professor Silverthorn." She inclined her head, but did not face him. 

"I will meet you in the Headmaster's office when you're done," he said.

She didn't slow her pace, and kept Oliver moving at her side.

"Yes," she replied, a hard edge creeping into her voice. "You will."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys seriously thank you so much for the sweet reviews! they truly give me the gumption to keep writing. so glad you're enjoying the ride so far ;)


	9. Intervention

She couldn't say for sure, but she imagined this was what it felt like to be Confunded.

A strange emptiness kept any coherent thought submerged beneath a murky haze. She couldn't seem to focus on the great oak doors before her. Her limbs felt cold and stiff. She'd almost forgotten her purpose in being there when Oliver broke the silence, lingering halfway between her and the infirmary entrance.

"Are you alright, Professor?"

His voice roused her. The corners of his mouth were downturned with concern.

"Should you see Madam Pomfrey too?" he added tentatively.

Despite the frightening display of power he'd witnessed - despite his battered body and broken collarbone - the boy was fussing over his teacher's wellbeing. She swallowed the numbness that smothered her every nerve, and mustered the strength to smile. 

"Save that energy, Oliver," she said, ushering him forward, "You'll need it once you find out what Skele-gro tastes like."

As soon as she'd settled him in, the malaise returned. She barely registered her surroundings as her feet carried her to the Headmaster's office.

Who had she been fooling? Why on earth had she ever trusted Dumbledore to let her teach here, when she knew herself better than anyone else? Had she wanted to believe him so badly - to believe that she could have another life here - that she'd closed her eyes to the obvious truth, that she was too dangerous to ever dream of this?

By the time she had meandered to the large stone gargoyle and murmured the password, her anguish had crystallized into firm resolve - her only choice was clear.

The echoes of a heated conversation rang from above as she ascended the winding staircase.

"... _direct_ liability for our work, Albus. She divines a person's true intentions with no effort, and she cannot be guarded against with Occlumency. Can you not see what a calamity would occur if she spilled what she knows to the wrong people? Her presence in this castle jeopardizes everything we have ever worked for, and I will not have your shortsightedness and inexhaustible pity for lost causes be the downfall of it all. I will not."

"Gracious, Severus - I never knew you to be such an orator. Perhaps I have overlooked a hidden talent of yours for public speaking."

"You know exactly where my talents lie," he seethed, and it seemed impossible that such a hushed voice could carry such ferocity. "And therein lies the problem."

She didn't wait for Dumbledore to respond, growing uncomfortable at the way she found herself lurking in the shadows. She rapped softly on the frame of the open door, and at the Headmaster's word, stepped into the room. 

Dumbledore sat at ease in his chair, giving no indication of the tense conversation Ariadne had just been privy to. Snape, by contrast, stood stiffly in the corner, his entire demeanor forbidding and dour, his robes drawn tightly around his shoulders.

"Good day, Headmaster," she said.

"Ariadne, my dear," Dumbledore replied pleasantly, "Thank you for joining us." 

She drew nearer to the Headmaster's desk, stopping next to Snape - though she stared coolly ahead, refusing to acknowledge him. The animosity roiled off Snape in waves, leaving a taste like bitter gunmetal in her mouth. She pursed her lips in distaste.

Dumbledore looked between the two of them, a kind of conspiratorial twinkle in his eye. He sobered, resting his elbows on the desk as he addressed Ariadne.

"It's my understanding that a small misadventure occurred today with a handful of students. Would you like to explain what happened?"

"Headmaster, whatever else can be said about Professor Snape, he does not mince his words. I'm fully confident that he's already informed you of today's events, down to the last scathing detail. I doubt I have anything further to add."

Next to her, Snape gave a testy scoff.

Dumbledore leaned back in his seat, nodding to himself. "Yes, it is true that Professor Snape has given me some idea of what transpired. But I find that we all add our own - if you will permit me - color, to the stories we tell," he said, winking. "For this reason, I wish to hear your own account of what happened, before we decide on how to proceed."

Ariadne clamped down on the tears that unexpectedly pricked her eyes. He was still trying to give her a chance that she didn't deserve.

Clearing her throat (she would _not_ cry in front of Snape like some student who failed their Potions exam), she stared at a fixed point on the floor. "Headmaster - when I say there isn't much to tell, it's not some warped attempt to defend myself. I intervened in a student altercation. I became... emotional. I overestimated my control."

"That would be putting it lightly," Snape sneered. "I've seen first years with a better handle on their magic."

Dumbledore raised a stern hand to silence him. "Professor Snape, Ariadne's particular abilities are of a nature which differs vastly from - "

Ariadne turned, meeting Snape's eyes for the first time. 

"Actually, I agree with you," she said. She looked back at Dumbledore. "For that reason, I'll be tendering my resignation immediately."

She could see the physical effect of her words on the two men - their auras both jolted in surprise, one, beneath a mask of serenity; the other, beneath a mask of indifference.

"My dear, there is no need to be rash - " Dumbledore began.

"If you remember the terms with which I accepted the position," Ariadne broke in, surprised at her own boldness, "we agreed that the moment I felt I was a danger to the students, I would no longer remain at this school. That moment has come and gone while I foolishly pretended I could handle it."

Dumbledore's face was grave. "'It,' being?"

She considered her words. "Even the most mundane functions of the job, Headmaster, they - when conducted in the presence of this much magical force, it causes enormous strain on someone of my... disposition. I cannot be trusted to remain in control around the students. At best, I put their wellbeing at serious risk, and at worst..." She shook her head.

Once again, she turned to Professor Snape, who was regarding her with a mixture of satisfaction and something very like disappointment; a small, cold flame that flickered fleetingly through his magic. 

"Professor Snape, I want to thank you."

She may as well have slapped him in the face with a salted cod.

"Thank me," he repeated.

"For reasons not entirely apparent to me, I understand that you view me as a threat." His eyes darkened. "I see now that the, ah, situation with the house points was your way of... proving it. I can't say that I agree with your methods, but you were right, in the end. Better the students lose points than suffer harm. Thank you for making my volatility clear before someone was truly hurt."

Snape opened his mouth, and closed it. For once, he seemed devoid of biting retorts.

When she looked back to Dumbledore, she was surprised to find the thunderous look he was shooting in Snape's general direction.

"Ariadne," Dumbledore said delicately, "If this was your concern, you should have come to me sooner. There are potions, magical artifacts, that can help with this kind of strain. You needn't have borne it entirely on your own."

She smiled wistfully. "I'm sure you're right, Headmaster. You'll have to forgive me. I suppose I wanted to see if I was capable of living this kind of life without a crutch. Hubris of the worst kind - and destined to fail, evidently."

"It's not too late," urged Dumbledore. "No grave offense has been committed, no serious injury inflicted. There is no shame in accepting aid when it is offered."

"I'm sorry. I can't stay here in good conscience, knowing what could have happened because of my lapse in judgement. I will finish the term while you search for a replacement, but my mind is made up."

Dumbledore's crestfallen face made him look his age, perhaps for the first time since Ariadne had known him. 

"You have already shown yourself to have exceptional potential," he replied. "Of course, I cannot stop you if your decision is final. Is there truly nothing that would make you reconsider?"

"I'm more sorry than I can say, but no."

"A great shame," he said somberly. "A great shame indeed."

She paused and pressed her lips together for a moment, toying with the words in her mouth. "I do have something to ask of you, if you'd be willing to hear it."

Dumbledore peered over his half-moon spectacles, inclining his head in assent.

"Caius Travers has suffered terrible abuse at someone's hands," she said. "And it's not anyone at the school - the scars are much older than when he began attending."

"Scars?" Snape spoke softly, his eyes narrowed. "What kind of scars?"

"Not physical ones," she said, meeting his eyes with some hesitation. He'd made it clear what he thought of her abilities. "Well, not exactly. When someone is injured badly enough, physically or emotionally, it impacts their magic - their auras splinter and crack. The scars that remain are very distinctive. But they can also be difficult to see, if the bearer really wants to hide them."

She turned back to Dumbledore. "I'm afraid for that child, Headmaster. His magical scarring is extensive and severe - some of the worst I've seen. I suspect a relative or family friend, by the age of the marks. I don't know how I missed them before. But if the school doesn't intervene, I have a terrible feeling that no one else will."

A grim shadow had fallen over the Headmaster's face. "Caius has been a troubled boy ever since he first stepped foot in this castle. I have suspected something of this nature, but to learn of the extent... there are no words."

It was hard to say how much time passed as the truth settled over the room.

"If we must count our blessings, it is fortunate that term has begun, and Caius has already been removed from the situation in question," Dumbledore said thoughtfully. "The Magical Youth Protection Division will mobilize immediately, but the investigation will be long and drawn out. I'm certain there would be retribution, were he still at home."

"Headmaster, if I may..." said Snape. 

Dumbledore looked at him, but his blue eyes were miles away. 

"I would like to volunteer to be the point of contact on file for the report."

Ariadne blanched. Though Snape could undoubtedly feel her bewildered gaze, he avoided looking at her.

"The boy is in my house. I am responsible for him," he said. "And given Professor Silverthorn's imminent departure, it seems prudent to utilize a staff member who will be present for the duration of the investigation."

She searched his tone for the vitriol she'd become accustomed to, but found none.

Dumbledore stroked his beard. "I agree that that course of action seems most wise - but of course, I leave the decision to you, Ariadne."

It was her turn to regard Dumbledore as she felt Snape's gaze trained on her.

"Yes," she found herself saying, "Yes, I agree that would be for the best."

Dumbledore took several minutes to explain the process of initiating contact with the MYPD. He summoned a few battered scrolls of parchment and a large yellow quill from his desk, detailing the interviews and responsibilities that would fall to Snape as the school's point of contact.

Throughout the discussion, Ariadne found that Snape assiduously looked everywhere but her direction.

When Dumbledore had finished, he thanked Ariadne for her time, explaining that he and Snape had several other matters to attend to. Snape wandered over to the south window, his cloaked form silhouetted starkly against the late afternoon light. A kind of restrained anger kindled his magic into a subdued buzz, though what he was angry about, she couldn't guess.

She paused at the doorway, her eyes flitting briefly to Snape as she debated whether to speak.

"Headmaster," she said, "I'll... never forget the chance you gave me at another life here. Please don't think that my leaving reflects a lack of gratitude."

Dumbledore gave her a sad smile. "On the contrary, my dear. I am sorry we failed to help you in the way you needed. The blame is ours - but I do hope that you will not think of us too poorly when you have departed. You will always be welcome here."

She struggled to voice a response, and chose to quietly take her leave instead.

The next few days passed without incident - Ariadne resumed her normal teaching schedule, keeping herself carefully numb to avoid any further accidents, as well as to keep the crushing waves of sorrow at bay. She didn't want to think about how she'd almost found happiness here, in her own little way - with coworkers who treated her as a person, and students who were eager for what she had to teach them. She didn't want to think about where on earth she would go next, or if she would be forced to return to her career at the Ministry by default, having known very little else for the majority of her life.

Between classes, she stole to her private quarters for respite, gazing at the verdant grounds of the castle from her high tower window, where the greenhouse looked like a sparkling jewelry box, and the lake unfurled itself tranquilly between pillows of emerald and jade.

Had she been any less absorbed in memorizing the campus - to remember what it was like when she was gone - she might have missed the student who was equally still, staring up at her window from a small meadow to the right.

Easy cruelty flicked casually through the unmistakable russet burn of his magic.

She blinked, and Caius was gone.


	10. On Display

"Professor Silverthorn," called a voice, reaching her from across the courtyard and momentarily cutting through the gleeful bubbling of the small fountain.

The day was absolutely glorious, and Ariadne had taken the long way from her quarters to her classroom, seizing the chance to bask in the radiant sun and crisp autumn air. The shifting breeze was just on the right side of chilly, and a winding column of smoke rose from Hagrid's hut, the only blot in an otherwise clear sky.

A particularly brisk gust sliced through her sapphire robes, and she shivered as her eyes came to rest on the advancing flurry of black cloaks that was Professor Snape. She slowed to a halt. 

"Good morning," she said softly, her brows slightly raised, once he'd drawn near.

He gave a curt nod. 

The slapping of student footsteps echoed from the adjacent cloister as the last few stragglers made their way to class. She tried for another pleasantry, if only to fill the strange silence.

"Enjoying the day?" she asked amicably.

Snape gave a strange sort of jerk with his head, which she genuinely struggled to interpret as either "yes" or "no."

"Ah," she said, opting for the safest route. 

She held her textbook snugly to her chest, and drummed her gloved fingers across the spine. Snape shifted his weight from foot to foot, his jaw working.

Only a few seconds had passed, but the longer they dragged on, the more spooked she got. This was the longest she'd ever been in the man's proximity without suffering a barrage of caustic insults. It set her on edge more than the sarcasm would have - not to mention, his magic was twitching up a storm. By the time she ventured to speak for the third time, she was ready to take a flying leap into the Black Lake.

She carefully began, "Is everything -" 

"I came to give you an update on Travers," he said suddenly.

The relief she may have felt at his speaking turned quickly into a clenched stomach. 

"Oh," she said. 

His sharp eyes studied her face. "I had assumed you would like to remain informed," he said slowly.

"Yes, I would," she blurted. "It's just that... there's no such thing as good news in a situation like this, is there?"

The words lingered in the air between them for a moment, a cool breeze stirring from the south and carrying them far, far away. Snape regarded her, leaving the contemplative remark unanswered.

He shifted his attention to the path at their feet, haltingly moving as if to continue the way she'd been going. With a slight jolt, she fell into a measured step beside him. He laced his fingers in a thoughtful steeple at his chest.

"The investigation has been....arduous, so I'm told," he began. "The Travers family has attempted to use all of their power and influence to dissuade the Magical Youth Protection Divison from looking into matters further. Disgrace is a fate worse than death for these old wizarding families - undoubtedly even moreso for one as old as this." He spoke as if the words tasted spoiled in his mouth.

"Please don't tell me that they can bribe their way out of this," she broke in.

A cruel edge crept into his black eyes, the kind of edge she'd come to understand meant he was revelling in someone else's misery. 

"No," he said, lips curling, "Fortunately, nothing spells 'front page headline' like a scandal from one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Once the story leaked to the press, even the shadowed dealings and back alley payments couldn't protect them any longer."

Immediately, she thought of Caius. "It's in the papers?" she asked quietly. 

She pictured the boy in the Great Hall, surrounded by a sea of lurid, flashing pictures of his family, of himself - his deepest shame emblazoned across the pages for the entire school to see.

Snape gave her a sidelong glance. "When the investigators were finally admitted into the home, the first thing they did was cast _Priori Incantatem_ on the wands of the parents. The last spell cast by the mother, Josephine, was one used to hide bruises - several, all at once, right before the investigators showed up." His voice was laced with disgust. "Caius Travers has a younger sister."

Ariadne felt ill.

"Whatever other implications arise from the investigation going public," he continued meaningfully, "it is for the best that the truth was uncovered sooner rather than later."

She nodded mutely. "They've removed the sister from the house?"

"She is in protective custody, yes."

Drawing in a slow breath, she asked, "How is Caius?"

"He has been....uncooperative."

She gave Snape a questioning look, noting the way his eyes had grown shifty.

"He does not seem to understand the gravity of what has been done to him. He is angry that his family's reputation has been ruined by... the school's meddling."

Snape's aura grew opaque, like a black shroud had settled over him.

"There's something you're not telling me," Ariadne observed.

His brow quirked in annoyance. He opened his mouth to snap at her, but seemed to think better of it, giving an impatient huff. They arrived at the cloister just outside the entrance to Ariadne's classroom, and they drew to a stop as Snape considered his next words.

"Exercise caution around the boy," he said carefully. "He is young, and his judgment is warped by a great deal of rage."

Her mouth parted slightly, and she marveled at this unexpected warning from a man who had only ever dealt her insults and thinly-veiled threats. As she weighed his words, however, that day in the hall flashed to the front of her mind - how she had seen Caius' invisible scars, and how she'd made very little effort to hide her shock and dismay.

_"Oh, Caius," she had said, watching as the fear twisted his boyish features - fear of her power, and fear that she could see something that the others couldn't._

Was Snape saying that Caius blamed _her_ for the investigation?

Ariadne shook herself, and buried the ominous sense of dread beneath a close-lipped smile. "It seems I'll be thanking you often in my remaining days here, Professor Snape. I'm very grateful to you for keeping me in the loop."

There it was again - that small, blue flame, gone so quickly that she wondered if he was even aware of it. He shifted his feet, looking very much like he was searching for the right words to say something, but then his eyes hardened, his jaw clenched, and his uncertainty was stifled with a sneer.

"Were it not my job to oversee the welfare of these students, I assure you, I would not be wasting my time with such trivial exchanges as this."

He spun on his heel, cloak swishing, and stalked off toward the dungeons. 

Ariadne blinked. The corners of her mouth twitched as she turned to unlock the classroom door.

***

Looking back on it, there were a lot of things she should have noticed that morning - how a different house elf had appeared in her room with the humble breakfast tray; how the swirling Earl Grey tea had looked cloudier than normal, tasting slightly metallic; how the walk to her classroom left her feeling lightheaded in a way that was different from the usual empathic drain. 

How the dark shadow of hatred on Caius' face made him look older than he had any right to look, and how he watched her with an unnerving intensity from the back of the classroom.

Despite it all, she'd distracted herself with the task at hand - getting through as much of the lesson plan as she could before a new Muggle Studies professor would replace her in two month's time.

It wasn't until she was several minutes into the lesson that her hand began to tremble as she spelled out "scientific method" on the blackboard.

"As we learned last week," she said, flexing her hand, "a scientific hypothesis must be falsifiable; otherwise the hypothesis cannot be meaningfully tested. If only the Ministry adhered to such principles with the experiments they so freely conduct under cover of darkness."

The quip left her mouth before she could stop herself. She stiffened in surprise, her back toward the class. 

A confused Ravenclaw raised her hand, not waiting to be called on. "What was that about the Ministry, Professor?"

Ariadne turned toward the students, the floor swaying beneath her feet. A cold trickle of sweat ran down her neck. Before she could answer, Caius shot up from his desk, grinning evilly as the chair screeched loudly behind him. A few of the other students jumped.

"Yes, what was that about the Ministry? Didn't you work there before coming to teach at Hogwarts?"

"I started work for the Ministry when I was eleven years old," the words slipped out with ease. She blinked rapidly. Why was she - 

Caius' maniacal grin broadened. "Oh? And what exactly did you do there, _Professor_?" he purred, his voice dripping with malice.

The class looked at Caius like he'd lost his marbles - even his companions, Hector and Cressida, were shooting him blatant looks of confusion.

A hysterical, effervescent sensation threw her heart into her throat; she could feel the words bubbling up her esophagus, could sense the ugly truths rushing forth to tumble from her lips like vomit. She slapped a hand forcibly over her mouth, but her chest gave a heaving, coughing spasm, and she was powerless to stop it.

"I was the tool they used to torture information out of criminals - wizards so dark that they had no happiness, no goodness left for the dementors to feed on - but who still had information the Ministry wanted."

Her eyes widened in horror. She couldn't take the words back once they were spoken - they hung like ghastly specters in the stagnant classroom air. 

The students had turned their stunned faces from Caius to the front of the room, where Ariadne stood clutching her throat.

On the wall at her right, Cephas, the young astronomer, had gone stock-still in his frame. He rose from his telescope in alarm as he watched the scene unfolding before him.

Caius laughed, the youthful sound twisted and wrong. His eyes gleamed as he hoisted himself up to stand on his seat, relishing the sickening tension.

"How did you torture them?" he breathed.

Tears began to well in Ariadne's eyes, the students' faces swimming before her. She thought one or two more of them had risen, perhaps paralyzed by fear, perhaps just as riveted by the spectacle as Caius.

"Please," she bit out. She couldn't think straight; some part of her screamed instructions from very far away, but her legs wouldn't obey her, and she was held captive by the nauseating urge to stay, to respond, to do whatever anyone asked of her. She stumbled at the teacher's dais, pain blossoming from the place where her hip banged into the corner of her desk. Something rolled off its surface and shattered on the floor.

" _How_ ," Caius repeated predatorily, "did you torture them?"

The astronomer tore from his frame, disappearing at once.

Ariadne answered.

"I looked into the eyes of wizards so evil that their names had been struck from public record before their crimes could be known by the world. I reached deep inside them and seized the root of their most instinctive, most unspeakable fears. I tortured them without ceasing until they wept for mercy, until they were beating their heads against the black granite floors. I was present, there with them, for all of it, watching from inside them as I squeezed their quivering hearts in my hands."

Cold tears of abject horror were streaming freely down her face. Through the fevered delirium, she could feel her magic pulsing from her in waves. Every desk in the room began to quake, quills and inkwells rattling, the ancient walls of the castle trembling. Eleanor was crying from the second row.

Without warning, there was a great flash of light; the classroom doors exploded off their hinges, hitting the ground with a _bang_ that made several students scream.

Professor Snape swept into the room, nostrils flared, his wand blazing. In the same moment, Cephas reappeared in his frame, sweating and clawing at his Elizabethan ruffle.

Caius was unaffected by the noise; he licked his lips as he greedily took in Ariadne's tears. "What else did you do, Silverthorn?"

She couldn't stop, even as her eyes found Snape's, even as she silently pleaded with him to stun her, silence her, _anything_.

Snape rushed forward as the words spilled from her mouth, brushing Caius aside.

"I learned to read the paths of the magic that swam in their veins," she gasped. Snape hurtled toward her in long strides. "I taught myself to make the junctures that channeled their magic choke and die, like sawing off a limb, until the magic was so lost within them that they could cast nothing, conjure nothing. They maimed themselves and begged for death, but still I did not help them, even as they bit off their own tongues with the insane longing to feel their magic return to them. I -"

Suddenly, Snape was before her, trapping her wrist in a vice grip that made her bones creak. His black eyes were murderous, his expression twisted with fury. He yanked her forward, causing her to stumble from the dais.

His sibilant voice hissed through gritted teeth, piercing the thick silence. "If any of you values your life, you will not move an inch from this classroom." 

He slashed his wand through the air, and the doors realigned on their hinges, shutting the students in behind them and locking with a click.

And then they were careening into the hall, charging through the corridors, plunging down the spiralling steps as he pulled her roughly toward the dungeon. The air grew cold and damp around Ariadne, and she vaguely registered that the sounds of her own sobs were echoing off the walls.

They reached the Potions classroom, and Snape made a beeline for the unassuming door in the corner, waving away several protective wards before bursting through and taking her with him.

She couldn't see anything, couldn't feel anything except for the violent tremors that wracked her body. This was a nightmare. This wasn't happening.

"Sit down," he directed, depositing her on a velvet green cushion, and the way her body was physically compelled to obey reminded her that it was anything but a nightmare.

He loomed over her, and her vision filled with the precise buttons of his tunic, the suffocating black of his robes. A cool hand deftly forced her head back. He brought his face low, inches from hers. With his thumb and index finger, he opened one of her eyes wide, grimacing as he examined her pupil. 

She began to shake so hard that she was in danger of falling out of the chair. "Please, _please_ ," she begged, though she didn't even know what she was pleading for. A sheen of sweat glistened on her forehead.

He gripped her jaw and tugged her face down, forcing her to meet his eyes.

"What have you eaten today?" he interrogated, his voice harsh. His eyes glinted strangely.

The urge to respond made her stomach roil. "Just toast, and tea," she managed. "Please -"

"Bobbin," he said to the walls, and Ariadne barely registered the oddness of the reply. A house elf, small and green-eyed, appeared in the room with a _pop_. "Bring me the tea from Professor Silverthorn's private chambers."

With a frightened look at Ariadne and a "Yessir, Master Snape," the elf popped out of the room, and was back within seconds holding a mug.

Snape seized the cup, wafting the contents before his nose, and cursed. "Foolish, _foolish_ ," he seethed, and her addled brain wondered what she possibly could have done to make him sound so angry. He disappeared from Ariadne's view, and she heard the clinking of glass as he rummaged wildly through the fluid-filled jars along the walls.

"You've been drugged with a triple dose of Veritaserum, Bubble Juice, and Befuddlement Draught," his voice came to her between clinks. "The bloodroot is toxic when mixed with moonseed."

As if one cue, the light leeched from her vision, like someone had extinguished every torch and lantern in the room.

"Professor Snape," she said in a high, choked voice, "I can't - I can't see."

She clutched the seat beneath her so tightly that it hurt, and for a moment of blind panic, she could no longer hear the clinks of the glass. He must have grown tired of her hysterics - hadn't he told her over and over how much he detested melodrama? - and left her there, alone, to succumb to the poison churning in her veins. She would die in this small, black antechamber.

Her skin tingled, and the familiarity of his magic was like an energizing shock as he drew near. His cool hand gripped her jaw again, his thumb and forefinger squeezing her cheeks as he pried open her mouth and forced a stinging liquid down her throat.

"Swallow," he commanded, and the warmth of his breath grazed her cheek. 

His iron grip held her mercilessly as she choked it down, sputtering. Her hand flew up - she grasped his wrist to steady herself. He uncorked a bottle and forced a second potion down her throat as they grappled in the strange headlock. The potions exploded through her system; his wrist was a lifeline, the only thing tethering her to reality as the cocktail of foreign ingredients rushed in her blood.

He offered no platitudes, no words of comfort - but his stalwart presence and the thready beating of his pulse in her hand were like a strengthening potion of their own.

Gradually, to her everlasting relief, dark shapes began to dance again before her eyes - but her vision remained dim and distorted, and she barely had the strength to sit upright. His grip on her jaw slackened, but she still held fast to his wrist.

His voice drifted to her through a strange fog. It was oddly soft. "You will be highly suggestible for the next several hours, though you should regain control of your faculties momentarily."

A wave of exhaustion hit her, and she was seized with the urge to lie down. As if he read her mind, she felt herself lifted up from the chair and braced on his shoulder. They shuffled several feet, his hand on the small of her back, and he guided her down onto what felt like a small chaise. 

She could just make out his towering shadow hanging over her as he lingered there, watching. An irrational flicker of fear leapt up in her chest - was he contemplating her vulnerability, toying with the idea of drawing out yet more secrets he could use to taunt and humiliate her?

Sleep pressed down on her from all angles, and she battled in vain to keep her heavy lids open. 

His murmured words came to her through a haze, but whether they were real or the beginnings of a potions-induced dream, she couldn't tell.

"Do you regret it?" he asked.

She knew, without really knowing, that he was referring to the agonized screams of her victims, merging together in a bone-chilling symphony that looped endlessly in her mind, her own personal form of torture.

A final, cold tear slipped down her cheek as oblivion overtook her.

"Every day."


End file.
